


you will sing our names

by rarmaster



Series: YWKON [4]
Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: (brief but there; no worse than ToS itself), Alternate Universe, Coping with PTSD, Gen, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts, closet makeouts, coping with abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-10-03 00:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 49,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17273969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarmaster/pseuds/rarmaster
Summary: A collection of oneshots falling within the continuity of my ToS/XC2 AUYou Will Know Our Names.(A list of chapters with summaries + characters/ships the chapter explores can be foundhere.)





	1. constants and variables

**Author's Note:**

> as of 5/6/19 there's been a few minor changes to a few chapters for Lore Reasons, [changelog here](https://rarsneezes.dreamwidth.org/2293.html?style=site)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Architect reflects, regrets.

He can interface with the network.

Not that he tried, not before Mithos and Martel—the Aegises, the new ones, the ones he created in the likeness of a family he missed despite any better judgement—were stolen. He knows he cannot go after them, but the least he can do is _check_ on them, right? See where they are?

So he reaches into the mass of ether, and closes his eyes against the roar of data in his mind.

It’s all meaningless and goes by too quick—the data collected and discarded almost immediately—but he grits his teeth and searches the writhing blurring network for a mana signature—an ether signature, a pair of them—that he could never forget.

He’s slightly more familiar with Mithos’, so he finds him first.

Kratos—the man those on the surface call the Architect, though he does not yet know this—the man the Aegises call Father—is overwhelmed instantly with terrible pain, strong enough to make the connection he’d established snap entirely.

He scowls. Tries again, cautiously, though he is certain nothing went wrong on his end.

Pain greets him again, but expecting it, he holds on tighter, and keeps holding as it fills him and fills him and doesn’t let him go. He can feel screaming in his bones, feel his own mana roar in his blood as it reacts to the phantom sensation of—

Pulling.

What?

It stops abruptly, and then the images come to him.

He is seeing things as Mithos sees them. Eyes blinking against fading brightness, the blue glow of ether lines remaining in the following darkness, residual pain and heaving gasps for air as Mithos bites his tongue and does not scream aloud, anger—hot and furious—slides down Kratos’ throat and he chokes on it, chokes on his own horror, as the scene plays out.

Mithos breathes, one, two, three, careful breaths, and then he speaks:

“Is that all today, huh?” he spits and it’s fire on his tongue and pain in his throat. “You sure you humans don’t want to burn even _more_ of the world, first? Obviously, Sylvarant deserves it—”

He gets no response. Bound wrists struggle against their chains. Something burns behind Mithos’ eyes.

“You’re going to regret this!” he screams. Tears soak his face. “You won’t get away with it forever! My father—he’ll come for me, for us, and then you’ll get what you deserve! My father will—”

Kratos lets go of the connection.

He sinks to his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks. They don’t stop. He’s not sure they’ll ever stop.

Mithos expects him to come to the rescue, and he cannot, he cannot, he cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot—

 

( _The taste of failure is one Kratos is very familiar with, but truthfully, it has never tasted as foul as it does right now._ )

 

He doesn’t stop looking. Perhaps he should, but he cannot.

They’re doing the same to Martel. Each country has a different Aegis, and both Aegises are trapped and tortured on the daily, ether stolen from them to raze the planet. It’s Thor’s Hammer all over again, except it’s in a world _he_ built, a world that wasn’t supposed to be this awful.

( _But his hands will never be clean, and perhaps something horrid is all his brokenness could have created._

 _This would not be the first horrid world he created, anyway, even if the first one was not entirely his fault._ )

He watches it, every day.

Hooks himself up to the network and finds one of the siblings and endures their pain with them. Any sane man would call him a masochist. But only a masochist would send himself off hurtling on a comet through space and condemn himself to thousands of years of loneliness, so:

He watches.

He lets their pain and their anger and their fear and their despair fill him to the brim and boil inside of him, because he cannot save them. He cannot even contact them, to apologize, to send them words of encouragement.

He can only watch.

He can only watch.

He can only watch.

 

( _If he had the power to burn the world, he might have._

_Start over_

_Or_

_Perhaps just_

_Give up entirely_

_It’s about time for that, isn’t it?_ )

 

He finds Yuan.

He doesn’t mean to, it just happens.

He’s monitoring Martel at the time—thankfully, the cannon is not on, though apparently they just leave her in the terrible machine—when he feels a change in the network. This happens frequently. Blades going online and offline all the time that it’s just distant background noise, especially since he does not recognize who the signals belong to.

But this signal, he recognizes.

It’s another mana signature he could never forget. Sharp and electric and blue.

His brother.

Or, a reflection of him, anyway.

He drops Martel’s connection and latches onto Yuan’s signal instead, curious, confused. A part of him is happy to see Yuan, but he does not understand why Yuan is here. There is no reason for Yuan to be here.

( _There is nothing interesting, truthfully, to be seen through Yuan’s eyes. Carefully decorated walls and fancy carpets, the hallway of what looks to be a castle, a low conversation that’s meaningless if a nice distraction._

 _Hearing Yuan’s laugh restores a few lost years to his soul._ )

It isn’t until long after he’s disconnected from the network and wandered Derris-Kharlan aimlessly for a while until he understands what likely happened.

His Cruxis Crystal is storing his consciousness, after all, and it’s serving as the anchor for the network. This was likely inevitable.

 

( _He fears who else he’ll find, fears it enough that he doesn’t dare look._ )

 

Martel goes offline.

He only notices it because he goes to find her and cannot. He fears for her safety, but then, death is not permanent for blades, so long as their core crystal remains intact.

( _And even if it was death, wouldn’t that be better than endless suffering?_ )

It’s three days before he can find her signal again.

He’s so startled to see his own face through Martel’s eyes that he drops the connection and doesn’t touch the network for a week.

 

Yuan goes offline, comes back.

 

Mithos goes offline, comes back.

 

It seems they’ve all found each other.

 

He’s… happy, for them. Fond. Unsurprised and grateful. Deeply nostalgic. He watches less and less, because it feels forbidden, feels like he’s intruding. This is their life, not his.

( _He watches it through eyes that are not his own. He refuses to make any connection with his reflection, the blade that shares his face and name and all of his bad habits._

_He’s afraid of looking through his own eyes._

_Besides, then he might be tempted to pretend that this is some kind of life he’s living, and that he’s not up here on a cold lonely rock in space of his own volition, might forget that he willingly burned every bridge he had home._

_He knows better than anyone except perhaps Mithos—his Mithos—and his Yuan that clinging to the past will only inevitably destroy you. So he doesn’t even allow himself room to start._

_Making the Aegises as they are was already bad enough._ )

 

Martel dies.

Truthfully, from there, everything goes as expected.

 

Sort of.

 

He finds Zelos and Colette, both of them online all of a sudden some hundreds of years after Martel dies.

Curious and surprised ( _because the only other mana signatures he’s recognized before now have belonged to Genis and Raine and they, like all other blades, go online and offline throughout the years in a constant cycle_ ), Kratos reaches for Colette.

He sees the inside of a cannon, and mouth sour and stomach churning breaks the connection before anything else can happen.

He discovers, over the years, the nature of their existence. Predictable. Sickening. Humanity never changes, never gets any less selfish, any less willing to do horrible things for foolish gains.

The Chosens—the Artificial Aegises—they go online and offline over the years, and he observes them, watches them coddled and praised in the downtimes. Zelos is the only one he ever finds in a cannon, but he’s not checking daily, so maybe he’s just missing Colette.

( _He can’t say he’s upset._ )

This, too, was probably inevitable, though it fills him with some weird kind of bitterness to know that even artificial blades are affected by his memories. Will other familiar faces pop up? Certainly if Lloyd were here, or Anna, they would have been a blade by now. Unless the world is waiting, waiting for more artificials, waiting for…

He isn’t sure.

He’s afraid of seeing them.

 

The blade Kratos says Anna’s name.

He’s watching through Mithos’ eyes at the time, a quiet conversation, something about Kratos coming back from being somewhere and this Kratos is much looser with his tongue ( _but isn’t that a good thing?_ ), so he tells Mithos where he was and who he met.

A human named Anna Irving.

It’s-

He shouldn’t, really-

But.

He has to know, has to see her, has to see how this world he created is treating her.

So he connects to the blade Kratos.

And he stays connected.

( _Truthfully, it is easy to get lost in._ )

He doesn’t know when Kratos is going to go back—and he will go back, of course he will, it, like everything else, is inevitable—and he cannot miss it so he sits connected to his reflection for… days.

It gives him a long time to think about things.

This reflection of himself…

Despite being a reflection of the biggest coward in all of existence…

Is a much braver man than he could ever dream to be.

 

Truthfully, he’s proud.

 

Anna is happy. Healthier than he’s ever seen her. She has a large family that has found her and loves her, she has a cause she’s fighting for and he earnestly believes that given enough time and resources she will see it succeed. Her passion is brighter—unrestrained by trauma—and her wit is a little sharper, a little cruder. She still burns as fiercely as he remembers.

He… nearly falls in love all over again.

But most of all, he’s glad. Even if this world is strange, twisted, a distorted echo of his past with familiar faces playing out new roles on a new stage… not all of it is horrible. Not all of it is the same.

It seems that in this world, some of these reflections are living lives much happier than they were able to in the previous. Isn’t that something? Isn’t that enough?

 

( _After he sees Anna, he never connects with the blade Kratos again, though. He memorizes Anna’s blade’s ether signal—Anna’s blade is not a man he recognizes—and uses that connection to watch, instead._

_It’s just safer this way, he thinks._

_He refuses to get lost in pretending._ )

An Aegis cannon goes off.

It’s hard not to feel it, when he’s already connected to the network. The sudden painful explosion of ether that makes the whole network shudder under its intensity and weight. It feels like… Zelos. But there’s something Mithos about it, too? The sensation makes his heart lodge in his throat and he reaches for Mithos’ ether signature—he shouldn’t but—except then something else catches his attention.

A flickering of another signal he recognizes. Like a heart struggling to keep beating. Anna’s blade…

_Anna’s blade._

He hooks onto the signal before he can spend another second thinking about it, not sure what he’s going to do but worry sitting in his throat too thickly to do anything else but at least watch—

Pain floods his senses as he sees through the blade’s eyes, everything slotting into place after that; a shield, ether bombarding him, the ether tastes like Zelos and it _won’t stop,_ and it _hurts_ , his hand in someone else’s squeezing it tight as frustrated tears burn in his eyes, he’s on the last of his energy, he can feel Anna dying behind him…

No.

He refuses.

He’s not sure it’s going to work but he finds the node for Anna’s blade in the network and grabs it with his hands. He can’t leave Derris-Kharlan. He can’t swoop down to the planet he created for a rescue.

But all Anna’s blade needs is energy, energy to keep going, for just a little longer.

He can do that.

He pours his own mana into the node, slowly at first because he’s not sure what the threshold is. He feels it out. Sees how much they can take. Calculates how much they need. The numbers aren’t good but they’ll die if he does nothing so he pours more mana in, pours it and uses Anna’s blade as a conduit, focusing the mana through pathways already established. Strengthen the shield. Hold fast.

( _He’s not sure what he’ll do, if he’s the one that kills them._ )

Zelos suddenly goes offline.

The roar of the cannon stops.

He loses visual connection, everything lost to pain the sensation of hitting the ground then the clouds of exhaustion, but…

Anna’s heart still beats.

And her blade remains online.

 

( _Well, actually, he connects with the blade Kratos one more time, attempting fruitlessly to send a message._

_Kratos, the blade, thinks Anna died._

_Kratos, the Architect, knows she didn’t._ )

 

Martel comes online.

 

Sort of.

 

He reaches for her ether signal and almost misses it, because it doesn’t quite feel like hers. He grips it anyway though, confused, curious—

Is startled by Colette’s face in the mirror when visual connection establishes, and then immediately breaks with his horror.

They… wouldn’t have.

( _But of course they did._ )

He knows Mithos had no hand in it, which is a strange realization if a small comfort. But the reality of what humanity did to Colette to resurrect a woman he selfishly raised almost to godhood fills him with guilt. He does not know how they thought of it, or why they went through with it, or how it worked, but—

He supposes, likely, Colette’s and Martel’s ether signatures were similar enough that it worked. (And maybe even, it would not have worked with any other pair of blades.)

He supposes, also, that it was inevitable, but that just makes him feel sick.

The lives of the artificial Aegises reflect the lives of the Chosens they reflect in too many ways.

( _And it wasn’t even directly his fault._ )

 

Martel-and-Colette go offline, come back online.

 

He sees Lloyd—all grown up and how he remembers him best—and forgets how to breathe.

 

From there, Lloyd saves the world.

He’d expected nothing less.


	2. a miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _No one!_ survives a cannon blast!"
> 
> And yet they do. Somehow.

“Shit,” Malos curses.

Anna can feel it, so she’s not, like, surprised. The terror of all of this has given way to—she isn’t sure, now. Resignation? Numbness? Malos’ shield is the only thing standing between them and death and maybe it won’t even save them and that’s. That’s fine. If this is how she goes, huddled up and surrounded by what's left of her family ( _Jin is gripping Malos’ free hand as if that could help him and Lora—bloody and smiling—holds Anna by the shoulders to steady her as she shakes with Malos’ strain_ ) then that’s fine. That’s fine.

“Malos,” Jin says, gentle.

“Well I ain’t gonna _give up_ ,” Malos hisses, but there’s something tense in his voice and Anna can feel pain and exhaustion along their link along with his own frustration and—it’s not terror, and it’s not quite strong enough to be despair, as cradled as that despair is in acceptance, but—He curses again. “Just don’t get y’all’s hopes up for getting out of here.”

Anna wishes she could comfort her blade but she’s in so much pain she can’t even get to her feet. The Aegis’ ether hits Malos’ shield and parts around it (for now) but some of it is leaking through and that _hurts_ and having so much power in contact with his own ether hurts _Malos_ which means Anna feels it too. She hisses and tries to think of something to at least say. Lora grips her shoulders tighter.

They aren’t going to make it.

“Shit shit shit,” Malos says, and no one scolds him because he loves running his mouth and it’s not like it’s distracting him. “Shit, fuck, I don’t know what I was thinking—”

“You were trying to save us,” Lora tells him, gentle, fond. “Even if it doesn’t work—it’s not wrong that you tried.”

Tears don’t burn in Anna’s eyes, but cold despair sits in her stomach.

It’s.

Fine.

It’s fine.

Lloyd’s safe because he and Dirk weren’t in town and Kratos isn’t anywhere near here and they’ll be fine and that has to be enough—

“Oh, what,” Malos says

And Anna feels it.

A jolt to her system, ether flooding out of Malos and into her, ether that’s sharper and thicker than any ether she’s tasted and it’s decidedly _not Malos’._ The strength of it cradles her for a moment like an apology and then it runs loose, filling her up more than she can take and filling Malos up more than he can take but the shield

_Holds._

The shield holds.

Purple swirls with teal and Malos screams because everything from his core to his fingertips is burning with ether that’s not his own and Anna bites down on her tongue and clutches her arm as a ghost of the pain licks her as well. She watches, horrified, as her skin discolors and tears away down her arm. She can’t feel her fingers. The pain is so sharp she doesn’t even comprehend that it’s pain anymore.

 _Architect,_ please—

The cannon blast stops.

The ether lets her and Malos go.

The last thing Anna sees is Malos hitting the ground.


	3. the poetry of two birds in a gilded cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seles resonates with the Aegis.
> 
> (Neither of them want to be here.)

The first thing Seles knows, as orange light engulfs her, is pain.

Pain and frustration and anger and betrayal and it hurts hurts hurts she just wants to curl up and vanish and never be seen again, she doesn’t want to come out, she doesn’t want to wake up, she doesn’t want to look at the stupid faces of all those who hurt her. Tears burn in her eyes and confusion presses against all the pain but the pain is so consuming that it won’t let her go, it’s bitter and angry like being told again to just stay put and smile pretty while her father goes off and ignores her again, and then—

Cold shock slides down her throat, and the light and the pain clears enough that she sees the Aegis looking down at her, startled.

The horror coalescing in her mouth suddenly vanishes, as does the distant sensation of pain. Suddenly it’s just Seles in her head with confusion and a little bit of fear because—what _was_ all that?

“Architect,” the Aegis swears. “They set me up with a _child_.”

And suddenly Seles understands.

“A _hem_.”

Someone else in the room clears their throat. Seles isn’t sure who. All the stuffy government officials sound the same—enough so that sometimes she can’t even pick out her father from the crowd of voices. The Aegis looks up, seems to realize himself, where they are. There’s not a lot of people gathered ( _afraid of this resonance being another failure_ ) but there’s still a handful. Seles doesn’t look at them ( _that’s not what she’s supposed to do_ ) but she can feel their gazes on her back, on her neck, drilling into her and the Aegis both.

The Aegis hesitates, a second.

And then he smiles.

“Right! You know how it is, still getting my bearings,” he jokes, with the fakest laugh Seles has ever heard. “It’s good to be back, everyone!”

She doesn’t need to be currently feeling his emotions to know that’s a lie. It’s plain on his face. The way the smile doesn’t reach eyes pinched with frustration, the way the smile is much too wide, but he flaps his hands through the air and makes a show out of brushing his hair back over his shoulder to distract from all that, so Seles is probably the only one who notices, which she thinks is probably exactly what he wants.

( _When you are told to do nothing but sit and smile pretty, it gives you a lot of time to watch._

 _Not a single politician Seles knows is ever not lying._ )

“Anyyywayy,” the Aegis says, loud and clear and drawing the sound out so no one else can speak over him. “Can me and my new driver have a little bit to get acquainted? I normally get that, right? Of course I do. Thank you.”

And then Seles is being led along with the Aegis to a set of private rooms fancier than even her father gets. A small, quiet part of her feels smug. Maybe she’s only here because she’s the driver of the Aegis, but this set of rooms does belong to _her,_ and not her father, and because of security he probably won’t ever be allowed in here. It’s nice. She doesn’t linger on it, though. She’s too occupied with watching her new blade.

The Aegis’ mask doesn’t fall even when they’re alone in the room, though he hides it more desperately, making a show of examining and complaining about the room ( _she knows he doesn’t care about that at all. Who cares that the carpet isn’t the perfect amount of softness or the right shade of beige? No one!_ ) rather than looking at her. Seles waits, and waits, like she’s supposed to.

But finally she’s had enough.

“It’s okay, you know,” she tells him.

He stops and looks up at her—guarded. Cautious. The most real expression she’s seen from him besides that split-second of horror when he realized _she_ was his driver.

“What is?” the Aegis asks.

“The emotional bleed,” Seles says, clearly and carefully. Maybe he thinks her too young to know about it but—come _on._ Everyone knows about it. That’s how drivers and blades _work_. “I know you’re trying to keep it from me.”

The Aegis stares. His mask slowly cracks. Zelos blinks at her.

Then he walks over, carefully, bends down so he’s more on her eye-level. It’s concern that paints his features, then, concern and anger.

“Honey, it’s really not okay,” he says, and he’s trying to be soft but not doing a good job at it.

Seles, who has been called pet-names all her life by people who don’t care enough to learn her real name ( _even her father, though she knows he knows it_ ), snaps, just a little.

“It’s Seles.”

Zelos blinks at her. Nods, like he’s taking note.

“Seles, then.”

He scowls at her, taking her in—all she is and all she isn’t. Seles stands tall and lets him judge her, lets herself be weighed by those eyes too-old-for-his-face and too-full-of-pain. How much has the Aegis seen, she wonders. How much of it does he like. His expression remains as neutral as he thinks he can get it, but Seles can see the anger in the way his mouth twitches with disbelief for a moment. Even while he’s withholding the emotional bleed from her, he’s an open book.

“Is something wrong?” she asks. She knows something is, the question is just _what._

( _Blades and drivers can’t literally read each other’s minds, unfortunately._ )

Zelos huffs. Puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his full height. “Look. I’m not trying to be rude, Seles. I just want to know why the hell they set me up with a _five-year-old._ ”

“I’m _nine_ ,” Seles replies, indignant.

Zelos rolls his eyes like that doesn’t really matter.

“You’re still a _child_. How could they just- how could they—”

He doesn’t finish, too concerned with taking the anger that’s breaking across his face and trying to hide it. He inhales sharply. His face goes blank for a moment. He aims for a smile, lands on faint annoyance instead, and must decide that’s better than roaring anger. Roaring anger that slips through the hold he has on the emotional bleed, roaring anger that fills Seles lungs and steals the air from them, because he’s not angry that he’s been paired with a child because he doesn’t want to be stuck babysitting his driver or anything…

He’s angry on _her behalf_.

( _Seles doesn’t even know what it’s like for someone to think of her before themselves._ )

“It’s been nine years,” Seles answers, carefully, though Zelos didn’t ask specifically. “Nine years, and twelve failed resonances. They were getting desperate…”

“…Enough that they’d take anyone,” Zelos finishes. Calculating, violet eyes fix on her. Weigh her again. He laughs, sharp and short. Puts a hand to his face, hiding his eyes and lowering his head. Seles watches the breath shudder in his chest. There’s no way he can keep maintaining two masks like this.

She’s pretty sure the physical mask is going to break before his hold on their shared emotional bleed does.

She also knows, as stupid as it is, that the way adults tend to get things done is not to ask for the thing they want, but instead to ask something adjacent, to catch the conversation partner off-guard and startle them into giving it anyway. It’s stupid. But she dances their dance, and hopes Zelos will dance along.

“You don’t want to be here, do you?” Seles says, sharp and clear.

Zelos pulls his hand away just enough to peek at her. His shoulders hunch. He hides his eyes again. Trying to give himself time to think, to breathe, to construct another mask. Usually it would piss Seles off, but the mask Zelos is frantically trying to piece together isn’t a mask she’s used to. She’s used to masks of pleasantries and _of-course-I-love-you_ , masks that hide ugliness and snake teeth underneath. Zelos is just trying to hide a well of pain with a mask of _I’m alright,_ and it’s much harder to be mad at that.

Maybe what he needs in his life is a something genuine.

Seles takes her own mask off.

“Look, I don’t wanna be here either!” she snaps, letting her anger fill her words instead of hiding everything she feels under a mask of being the perfect politician’s daughter. “I only tried resonating with you because my dad said I had to! I mean- he didn’t _make_ me, but he didn’t really give me a choice, either!” She stomps her foot against the ground. Hisses against the frustrated tears that burn in her eyes. “He kept talking about how it was such a great opportunity for me and how I should be _grateful,_ and _happy,_ even though he only did it for _himself._ Like he could- like he could become important just because his daughter was the Aegis’ driver!!”

Zelos looks up at her, startled. He weighs her words, and his face scrunches up with disgust at them.

“Setting his daughter up as the Aegis’ driver just for a power grab? What kind of selfish bastard…” He realizes himself after a second, and laughs, nervous. “I mean- No offense to your dad, kid—”

“None taken,” Seles interrupts. “Also, it’s _Seles._ ”

A faint bubble of shame slips through his hold on their link and pops in Seles’ throat. Zelos’ voice is kind of small when he says: “Right.”

He doesn’t say anything more. Seles crosses her arms over her chest and scowls as hard as she feels like, directing the dirty look to the wall instead of at her new blade so Zelos doesn’t think she’s mad at _him._ ( _And she’s_ not _, because this isn’t his fault either._ )

She takes a look at their rooms again. So, alright, they aren’t just hers, but she finds she doesn’t mind the idea of sharing them with Zelos so much. They’re… _really_ big. The room she and Zelos stand in now could probably fit a dinner-party of thirty comfortably, with its three big couches and large coffee table. There are _five_ doors to other rooms, and one of them’s probably the bathroom, but—that’s _a lot_ of rooms. And they’re _fancy._

Seles hopes her father never even gets to set his foot in one.

“Hey, Seles?” Zelos says.

Seles turns her attention back to him, curious. Once he has her attention he walks over, and instead of kneeling, sits on the edge of the couch. It gets him mostly on her eye-level, and they’re facing each other, Seles with her arms still crossed, and Zelos with his hands clenched between his knees.

“What is it?” Seles asks.

“Well, there’s two options that you have from here,” Zelos says, slowly and carefully. “The first option is you stay with me. It won’t be fun. Most people will act like you don’t even exist.”

“I’m used to that,” Seles interrupts. Zelos’ lips make a tight line, before he continues speaking.

“I don’t exactly make great company, either,” Zelos adds, scowling. “So it’s gonna suck a lot, I think, if you stay.”

Seles squints at him. Wait a minute.

“Are you saying I can choose _not_ to stay?”

Zelos shrugs. “Not traditionally,” he admits. “But I can pull a few strings. End the resonance with you right now.”

“You can _do that_?” Seles asks, not sure if she believes him at all. “But blades can’t just- _end_ resonance with their drivers!”

“Aegises can,” Zelos says, simply. “So… if you’d rather be somewhere else, I understand, and we can end this right here. I won’t be offended. Probably be better for you if you weren’t stuck with someone like me, anyway.”

Seles scowls. “What’s gonna happen to you, if you do that?”

“I’ll go back to being a rock, at least until someone else manages to wake me.” Despite the answer, Zelos smiles. “Can’t say I mind that too much, though.”

Architect, he really _doesn’t_ want to be here!

That realization alone almost makes Seles say go ahead and end the resonance, but she catches herself. Thinks of herself, because someone has to. She feels bad for Zelos, but…

“Can I stay with you?” she asks. At Zelos’ surprised expression, she explains: “I mean, as fun as it would be to do the opposite of what my dad wanted me to do, I think he’d be _really_ mad if I failed the resonance, especially since someone’s probably already told him I succeeded.”

“And if you aren’t with me, they’ll send you back to him, huh?” Zelos says, which Seles nods at even though she doesn’t think he was asking. He lets out a long breath, then sends her a look that’s full of—well, it’s not an expression Seles is used to seeing, so she has trouble reading it. Concern? But it’s so much deeper, so much softer than that, too. Zelos pats his knees twice, then hops to his feet again. The mask is back on. “Alright!” he says, cheerfully. “If you wanna stay, you can stay. It’s not really up to me.”

Seles wants to protest, but, instead she remembers her manners.

“Thank you,” she tells him.

Zelos looks startled again. Then he smiles, and he laughs. “Yeah, sure, no problem.” There’s a fake-note to his laugh that makes Seles scowl, but she supposes since she asked him to stay tied to her even though he doesn’t want to be, he’s allowed to be kind of peeved. Or maybe something else is bothering him.

If he wasn’t gripping their emotion link so tightly, she’d know.

“Zelos,” she says.

He flashes her a look, innocent. “What?”

“You have to stop blocking our emotional link.”

Alarm flares across Zelos’ face, like he’s a threatened animal for a split-second, before a smile replaces the alarm again. He shakes his head and he laughs. “Oh, come on, Seles, you really don’t want to be feeling all that,” he hedges. It’s supposed to come off as a joke.

She thinks he’s being sincere.

( _The taste of all that pain and anger lingers on her tongue, and she guesses she understands. But._ )

“Yeah? And how long can you keep it blocked off?” Seles asks, glaring at his back as he walks away from her. The hunch of his shoulders and the lack of an immediate answer tells her everything. “Thought so.”

“Look, Seles,” Zelos says to the opposite wall. “What I’m feeling right now… isn’t pretty. I really don’t want to unload all of that on you.”

“But I’m your driver!” Seles protests.

Zelos turns to flash her a glare which she thinks is more show than not. The narrow of his eyebrows is much too exaggerated. “You’re _nine_.”

“So?”

Okay, that actually made him angry, she’s pretty sure. There’s some kind of shudder in his features, barely-contained feelings that slip through his mask, and he turns his head away. Huffs loudly. Yanks on his own hair. She watches him wrestle with this, this demand she’s made, this demand he doesn’t want to give in to. Maybe it’s mean to make him, but:

“I just think if you can’t keep it from me forever, maybe it’s better if we just rip the band-aid off now,” Seles argues, enunciating herself as clearly as possible because that tends to help adults think a little more highly of her.

Zelos hangs his head in defeat, and he laughs.

( _Laughter must be his favorite mask_.)

“Fine, fine,” he relents. “But I warned you. It’s not pretty.”

He doesn’t finish speaking before the foreign anger fills her lungs again, a weighty despair that doesn’t belong to her. Everything laid before her, life as a whole, it feels much too much to bear, to even think about, and then there’s everything that lays behind her as well. A past marked with betrayal and pain and hate and hate and hate but the hate is a knife pointed back towards her own heart. She doesn’t know exactly how Zelos died last time, but suddenly she’s terrified to find out, if thinking about it makes him want to just curl up and die again.

“Oh,” Seles says, small.

She puts a hand to her mouth. Chokes on tears that don’t belong to her.

“Sorry,” comes Zelos’ voice, distant. With it comes a sea of shame, and then something else.

Something Seles doesn’t recognize right away. It’s hard to. It’s sharp and it’s warm, it makes her gut clench. Mind spinning to supply an explanation, her memories supply her with the time she found a bird with a broken wing and wanted to take it inside and help it even though she had no idea how. That emotion Zelos is feeling is kind of like that, and it’s kind of like the anger she felt when her father told her she couldn’t. She felt sorry for the bird. The thought it would never fly again made her feel so sad, and the fact her father didn’t care made her burn, and she just wished _someone_ would care about that bird.

Zelos… is kind of like a bird, isn’t he?

An echo, copied, played back of that emotion of Zelos crystalizes in Seles’ chest, and she knows what it is.

It’s _protectiveness._

She looks up at Zelos, violet eyes meeting violet eyes, and in that moment, they come to a shared understanding.

Neither of them want to be here.

But perhaps they can look after each other.

( _After all, here is better than any other place that they’re allowed to be._ )


	4. first and final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blades aren't the only ones that live multiple lifetimes, but then, Anna is the exception to a lot of things in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record: the Architect had _no fucking clue_ this was happening

Kratos Aurion only loved one woman in his entire life.

He loved her so much, that the world he created kept giving birth to her, again and again and again, hoping that one of her reflections might meet his in one of his lifetimes.

 

 

 

The first time they meet in his final lifetime, she is older than him and her hair is long, which makes her nearly impossible to recognize, even if he did have memories of her. Her lab coat is half unbuttoned like she threw it on as an afterthought, eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses she only wears for show.

He is distrustful—but of course he is. This is the beginning of his last lifetime, everything that made him a blade stolen from him, human blood clogging his veins and diluting the ether. When one of _them_ unlocks his cell—even if she looks over her shoulder twice and seems nervous if certain about what she’s doing—he bristles. He doesn’t stand up. He sits rigid in his corner, back to the wall, knees to his chest. He’s not going anywhere without force, and she doesn’t look strong enough to move him.

"Come on," she says, with a gentle nod of her head towards the door.

He stays put. Doesn't answer.

“Kratos, _please_ ,” she begs. “I want to get you out of here. What Kvar’s doing—it’s wrong. Please.”

( _If the Architect was watching this happen, he would have laughed at the irony of their swapped roles._ )

“And why should I trust you?” he asks, voice creaking from disuse, his ether lines too dim now to properly cast any light in the gloom, the only light coming from the hallway behind her. “You’re just like the rest.”

“I’m not, promise.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To save—”

“No. Why are you here, to begin with?” Red eyes glare up at this woman, as he decides to be defiant with every inch of strength left in him. They cannot take everything from him. He will not let them. And he’s certain, if he leaves this room again, they will try. “Did you steal that lab coat? That badge? Those keys?”

She hesitates. “No,” she admits.

“So you’re one of them.”

“I’m tech crew,” she spits, glaring. “I stare at computers and watch numbers while Kvar does his disgusting shit. And I’m tired of it. I can’t really _stop_ what he’s doing, because if I fuck up my job I’ll just get replaced by someone who won’t, but I _can_ smuggle the one blade he hasn’t damaged beyond repair out of here.”

He turns his head away, mouth pulling in a snarl. The too-dim glow of his ether lines are a bitter, bitter reminder that matches the sickness constantly boiling under his skin, the _thump thump thump_ of a human heart in his chest that drowns out the once-comforting pulse of his ether.

“I’m not really a blade anymore.”

“Yeah, well.” Her voice gets tense. Annoyed. A sound, down the hall. She turns over her shoulder and stares for a long moment, waiting, waiting, but the sound doesn’t repeat, and she must not see anyone because she turns back to him. “Are you coming or what? I mean if you’d rather wait for Kvar to come pick you up tomorrow and do—who knows what! Then! By all means!”

She smacks her palm against the doorframe, keys rattling in her other hand, and it’s the flash of anger that makes him consider, more than anything else. He’s used to masks of either kindness or dispassion, eyes that don’t want to look directly at him, except when they do and then it’s with too _much_ interest and that’s worse, actually.

He uncurls, a little bit, but doesn’t get to his feet, still watching, waiting, never letting his guard down.

“Where’s the exit?” he asks.

“What?”

“If you intend to get me out of here, then you’ll have no trouble telling me where the exit is. You expect me to follow you?”

“I know the quietest route to take—”

“A route that could lead me straight into another trap where I’ll be experimented on again,” he counters, pain making his voice flash, his breath quicken. He hates that. But the singing blare of neon still burns on his eyelids, the sickness roils constant in his veins, the sting of needles of electricity of ether being taken from him. He cannot seem to forget the quiet fear that was his welcoming into this lifetime, either, fear that has painted his every thought and action, fear that chokes him even though his driver is no longer alive to be sending that signal. He will not simply _walk_ into more torment.

The woman considers him, with eyes narrowed. Then she speaks.

“North staircase, get to the second floor. Turn left, room 203. My office. Window’s open, it lets out to the back of the building, I disabled the only security camera that’s aimed on that area. Where you go once you’re out of the building is up to you, I suppose. It's not like I can go with.”

He studies her. Rises slowly to his feet.

“Is your office locked?”

“Yes.”

“May I have the key?”

“Planning on going alone?”

“I would prefer to.”

She stares at him, like she can’t really believe that. “You sure? If I’m with you, we can at least trick anyone we might bump into that I have a _reason_ for you to be out of your cell.”

“Rather take my chances without you.”

“You’re _serious!_ ”

“You would be too, if you were me.”

He doesn’t move, back pressed to the wall. He hasn’t had the energy or the time to make himself a new sword, and his ether runs too strangely now for him to trust it for magic without having practiced first. He can put up a fight with his fists, and could probably take her on her own, but he still doesn’t want to make this easier for her. What if she’s lying? What if this is just a ploy to get him to leave, since he’s been making it difficult for them, lately?

She glares at him— _glares_ —but he really isn’t being unreasonable, in his opinion.

“Fine,” she says, finally, defeated. She shoves the keyring and its jangling keys in her pocket and fumbles at her badge, instead—it seems she keeps her personal keys on it. After a minute (much too much time to sit and listen to the _thump thump thump_ that haunts him constantly, now) she triumphantly holds up a single silver key, and then pantomimes tossing it to him before she does for real.

He catches it with ease.

Now he just has to get past her when he doesn’t trust her an inch. Yes, even if she grabbed him, he could throw her off. The noise would cause a commotion, though. And what if she’s hiding sedative on her person?

( _Seems cruel, to make him walk over to that fate instead of just forcing it upon him, but he’s learned to never underestimate the cruelty of humans_.)

“It would be nice if you stopped blocking the doorway,” he tells her, the stupid fucking human heart he has now beating out-of-sync with the pulse of his ether, making the fear that digs its claws into his throat twice as disorienting. He wishes he wasn’t scared. He hates how dizzy this foreign organ beating against his chest like _it’s_ the caged animal makes him.

“Stubborn piece of shit,” she grumbles, but steps back one pace, then a second when he glares at her.

“Hands where I can see them.” He must sound like an idiot, making demands while his voice tight and high like it is, but the human blood moves too fast and his ether not fast enough anymore, and stepping out of this room terrifies him.

She obliges, at least, though she rolls her eyes as she does so.

“Gonna stand there all day?” she teases, an edge to her tone.

He considers it.

Staying is definitely going to lead to more pain. Leaving—if she isn’t lying, if he can actually get out of this facility—might possibly mean he’ll never hurt again, at least not like this, but. But. He has only the word of a human to trust, and after all humanity has done to him, it’s a hard word to trust.

He clutches the key she tossed him until its teeth hurt his skin.

Well, she did give him a little more than a word to trust, didn’t she?

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” she tells him, sounding exasperated. Her eyes flicker down the hallway. Watching for someone who’d stop them? Hoping for reinforcements? He’s not brave enough to believe it’s the former. “Come on.”

He takes a step forward. Then another. His ears strain for noise, for any hint that there’s someone hiding right where he can’t see them, but he can’t hear anything over the _thump thump thump_ of a thing that definitely doesn’t belong in his chest. He checks both directions before he steps completely out of the room. Clear. It’s just him and the woman.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of her for more than a second as he moves towards the direction that she told him the staircase to be a few steps, deciding he’d rather make a break that way than go back into the room and hide until someone else came. If they caught him, at least they caught him fighting, right?

“Stay here,” he tells the woman.

She looks angry, but she takes it with a laugh. “Don’t trust me?”

“No.”

He starts moving, again, and she doesn’t move to follow, though she glares at him, glares and glares and glares, until there’s enough distance between them that he feels comfortable taking his eyes off her and taking the directions she indicated.

The exit is exactly where she said it would be. He doesn’t run into any trouble. Drops the key on her desk—stealing it would only be petty revenge, and she _did_ help him. He’s too distracted by the too-close taste of freedom and the still-too-foreign things in his body to even glance at the name _Anna_ _Aurion_  plastered on her door.

And like that, Kratos is free.

 

 

 

The final time they meet, she is younger than him and her hair is short, bottom lip bisected with a scar, and eyes wild. She greets him with a knife to his throat, as distrustful of him as he is of her. She thinks he’s a myth. He thinks her an anomaly.

He does not really remember when they met, 400 years ago, has forgotten the face of the woman who saved him, and never learned her name. She does not remember anything between her lifetimes, so she doesn’t remember him, either.

Kratos Aurion was a blade, once.

Anna Irving is a revolutionary, now.

It’s the last lifetime, for the both of them.


	5. the ratio of freckles to stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just gotta lock your brother and his driver into a closet until they figure their shit out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from [this song](https://genius.com/Halou-the-ratio-of-freckles-to-stars-lyrics) which is valid and could be Zelloyd though i wouldn't begin to call it relevant for _this_ fic
> 
> this scene takes place after some rp shenanigans: which you can read [here](https://aurions.dreamwidth.org/483.html) and [here](https://presidentheartbeat.dreamwidth.org/652.html), which I highly suggest you do, it's good prose  
> 

“I can’t believe this.”

“I think I can.”

“Shut up.”

Lloyd laughs. Zelos grumbles.

“Seriously! Colette didn’t have to _lock us in a closet!_ ” Zelos protests.

Lloyd has to agree there. She didn’t _have_ to, no, because he was absolutely going to talk to Zelos about that welcome-home kiss tonight, but: “I’m not surprised she did, though.”

“I’m gonna kill her!”

“No you aren’t.”

“Shut! _Up!_ ”

Lloyd laughs again. By now his eyes have adjusted to kind of weird way the darkness of the closet is only illuminated by the orange glow of Zelos’ core crystal and ether lines. Oh, and Zelos’ bright orange cheeks. Blades glowing when they blush is really cute—at least, Lloyd thinks so, anyway. Zelos is probably just embarrassed about it. Or maybe it’s just nervousness that Lloyd’s feeling along the emotional bleed? Which, alright, Lloyd can understand. He doesn’t _dislike_ being in this position, not one bit, but the fact their only light to see by is coming from Zelos and nothing else is immensely intimate in a way that fills Lloyd with a kind of restless energy. Lloyd tries not to fidget, because he’s definitely going to elbow Zelos or step on his toes if he attempts.

“Stop looking so smug,” Zelos whines. He’s _pouting,_ which makes Lloyd fond, as exasperation plays back and forth across their emotional bleed and Zelos pouts _harder_. Zelos moves like he wants to cross his arms over his chest but then realizes that there’s not enough room for that.

“Hey, at least we get some privacy this way,” Lloyd argues, sending Zelos an encouraging smile. “That’s kind of nice!” They’re so close that it’s almost impossible to not be touching, but Lloyd keeps his hands at his sides, because touching like _this_ is more than he currently has the courage for. His heart’s pounding so loud he’s surprised Zelos can’t hear it. Maybe Zelos can?

“It’s not nice, Lloyd, I’m freaking out!”

Lloyd can feel that, all of Zelos’ panic bubbling along their resonance link, but it collides and whines high and in sync with Lloyd’s own nervousness about the position the two of them find themselves in. He can’t take his eyes off of Zelos’ orange cheeks, freckles drowned out by the glow. He wants to kiss Zelos on the nose so bad. He should probably wait a minute.

Despite them being less than an inch from each other, it’s still somewhat difficult to find Zelos’ hands in the dark, especially when Lloyd refuses to look away from Zelos’ face. But after some fumbling he finds them, grips them tight, entwining their fingers.

“Zelos,” he whispers, and his face is all hot and Zelos won’t look directly at him, _nervousness joy nervousness panic nervousness excitement_ playing on a loop in their minds. “Hey, there’s no need to freak out.”

Zelos looks at him now, scowling. “Oh _sure_ of _course_ there isn’t!” he protests, sarcastic and kind of angry.

“Zelos,” Lloyd says again, gently.

“Uuuuughh,” Zelos groans, casting his eyes up towards the ceiling. Lloyd gets the feeling that if he wasn’t currently holding Zelos’ hands, Zelos would have probably tried to bury his face in them.

“I think Colette wants us to talk,” Lloyd begins.

“No fucking shit,” Zelos grumbles.

“ _About_ ,” Lloyd continues, exasperated, “the fact we kissed? And what that means for us? At least, that’s what _I_ wanna talk about.” He squeezes Zelos’ hands. Wishes quietly that neither of them were wearing gloves right now.

Zelos squeezes his eyes shut, squirming a little. The emotional bleed doesn’t imply he’s uncomfortable, more like he’s desperately fond and has no idea what to do with it. Lloyd feels kind of the same, though he knows what he _wants_ to do with it, it’s just he thinks Zelos might actually die if Lloyd tried to kiss him right now.

Lloyd waits a second for Zelos, and Zelos inhales sharply, exhales slowly. Then he opens his eyes again. He’s definitely still super nervous, but so is Lloyd, and the feedback loop of nervousness can’t really be doing anything good for either of them, but there’s not really any stopping it, either, and Lloyd knows that he personally isn’t gonna be able to stop feeling nervous until they’ve talked.

“Well?” Zelos says.

“Oh! Um,” Lloyd says. He starts to fidget, remembers he can’t move his feet, ends up just kind of wiggling for a second as he tries to find his words. “I mean I know one kiss doesn’t mean we’re dating, but. We could be dating? If you want?”

Good job, Lloyd, super eloquent. (Not.)

Zelos doesn’t answer for a moment, looking kind of dumbstruck. The way he’s staring at Lloyd makes Lloyd feel a little bit more like he’s being stared _through,_ like Zelos isn’t really seeing him there at all _._ Lloyd leans a little closer, squinting, not that he can really lean much closer before his face is just _in_ Zelos’.

“Zelos?” he asks, concerned.

“Wha—” Zelos’ voice cracks. He clears his throat. Blinks. “What?”

Lloyd takes a moment, trying to decide if Zelos didn’t hear him (unlikely) or… misunderstood? Lloyd thought he was pretty clear though. Hm. It’s just a high song of nervousness and surprise playing on loop in the back of his mind, his awareness of Zelos all tight and flustered. He squeezes Zelos’ hands tightly, once.

“Do…  you _want_ to be dating?” he repeats, rephrasing it a little.

Zelos blinks again, doesn’t answer. Lloyd’s own nervousness jumps into his throat, fear and some regret bubbling into his stomach as his hope and excitement fall from the sky, because okay maybe this wasn’t, maybe he didn’t, maybe he shouldn’t have—

Zelos kisses him.

It’s sudden and desperate, Zelos pushing Lloyd against the wall fast enough that Lloyd’s head bumps against it and that _kinda_ hurts but not enough to distract him from the fact _Zelos is kissing him,_ and joy soars in his heart like a bird as Zelos drowns his fear and regret with _desire desire desire_. Lloyd squeezes Zelos’ hands until his fingers hurt, the tension in his bones slowly seeping out of him, and he kisses back as well as he knows how. Lloyd wants to just get lost in it, but a quiet bubble of concern beats at him, because… Zelos probably means this as a yes, but Lloyd wants to double check, just to be sure.

“Hey,” he mumbles, with some effort seeing as his lips are occupied, but Zelos backs off a little so he can speak, violet eyes watching him, illuminated by Zelos’ glowing crystal and blushing cheeks. “Should I, uh, take that as a yes?” Lloyd asks.

Zelos rolls his eyes a little, his smile so soft and so cute that Lloyd’s heart forgets how to beat. “I’d think that would be obvious,” he laughs, and he _sounds_ exasperated, but Lloyd doesn’t mind that much.

Lloyd shrugs as well as he is able right now. “Hey, I just wanna be sure!”

Zelos looks at him, the glowing blush of his face bright and somewhat overwhelming, and Zelos makes a face kind of like he’s not sure what to do with Lloyd at all, and fondness so deep and so strong floods their emotional bleed that it knocks Lloyd off his feet, and he laughs a little in the wake of it, drowning and content as Zelos kisses him again, soft and quick.

“Yes,” Zelos says, turning his face a little and kissing Lloyd’s jaw, “yes,” his cheek, “yes,” his nose, “ _yes yes yes,_ ” lips again, and Lloyd giggles, delighted, bathed in Zelos’ orange glow. He can’t feel his fingers. He doesn’t really mind.

“I love you,” he whispers, and it’s like lead in his mouth but he’s soaring on a cloud at the same time. Three words he’s said before, but not like this, not while the only thing he can see is Zelos’ face in the dim orange light, his back pinned to a wall, Zelos’ weight against his body intoxicating.

( _It’s scary, but the idea that Zelos could never know scares him more, so much more, and that had almost—_ )

Zelos exhales, soft and surprised. He pushes his forehead against Lloyd’s. “I love you too,” he whispers, and the words sound like they get a little stuck, but his breath on Lloyd’s face is warm and Lloyd can _feel_ that Zelos means it, _love joy love fondness love_ flowing along their resonance link.

Lloyd can’t stop grinning. He’s so happy.

“It’s nice to have that all figured out,” he laughs.

“Yeah,” Zelos agrees. “Which I guess means we’re done here…?” He sounds kind of disappointed. Lloyd squirms, restless again.

“I mean,” Lloyd says. Licks his lips. “Colette’s probably not gonna come get us for another hour, right? That’s what she said. So that’s, uh, plenty of time to—”

“ _Holy_ shit, Lloyd,” Zelos laughs, but it’s fond fond fond.

“What!! I _like_ kissing you!” Lloyd protests. His face feels like it’s on fire, when he says it, but like, it’s _true._ It feels nice and it makes _him_ feel nice and it makes Zelos feel _happy_ and he’s all abuzz with delight and he doesn’t want it to stop. Besides, what else are they supposed to do for the remaining hour? Talk? _Boring_!

( _Also, Zelos was gone for two days, without warning, without any way of contacting him, or knowing if he was alright, so, like. Could anyone really blame Lloyd, for wanting to enjoy the fact Zelos is_ here _as thoroughly as he can?_ )

Zelos’ whole face flushes with orange, and when Lloyd grins at the sight Zelos scowls.

“Honey, this isn’t fair,” Zelos whines.

“I’m blushing too!”

“But I can’t _see_ it—” Zelos breaks off, eyes aglow like he’s thought of something. He extracts his hands from Lloyd’s, and Lloyd can’t really see what he does, but there’s a shuffle of movement, and then— _oh._

It’s suddenly a lot brighter, because Zelos has taken off his gloves and exposed an extra ten inches of ether lines on both his arms. His hands come up to Lloyd’s face, ether lines in his palms illuminating Lloyd’s skin and his flushed red cheeks, and the look that enters Zelos’ eyes is somewhat smug, somewhat awed.

“What?” Lloyd asks, blushing harder under Zelos’ gaze.

Zelos strokes Lloyd’s face. “You’re cute,” he whispers.

Lloyd’s breath catches in his chest. He wiggles until he can plant a kiss on Zelos’ nose.

“So are you.”

 _Annoyance-delight-annoyance_ flows from Zelos into Lloyd, and Lloyd drinks it up, laughing, as he pushes his mouth into Zelos’ again. He’s restless and needs something to do with his hands, so Lloyd fumbles to pull his own gloves off, which is hard at this angle and when he’s distracted by trying to kiss properly and the way Zelos’ fingers are digging into his scalp.

Zelos pushes him into the wall again and Lloyd lets him, reaching up to trace bare fingers over Zelos’ ether lines, which makes Zelos shiver and pull away a little, breath heavy against Lloyd’s lips. Lloyd hums, unapologetic. Ether lines fascinate him. The slight indent of skin, the way ether _concentrates_ along them, in a subtle little way that Lloyd knows he shouldn’t be able to feel but he’s not really a normal human, is he? It’s electricity on his fingertips and he relishes in it, relishes in the slow way Zelos kisses him as he traces his fingers up and down Zelos’ arms.

He’s… curious about something, actually.

It’s kind of difficult to get his hand where he wants it when Zelos is pushing all of his weight against him, but Lloyd manages alright to trace his fingers up Zelos’ chest until they find Zelos’ core crystal, bare skin meeting warm stone and Zelos _gasps_. Lloyd carefully runs his fingers over the crystal, taking in the way Zelos shudders, puts his hands against the wall to brace himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Zelos breathes.

“Sorry?” Lloyd mumbles, a question.

“No you aren’t.”

Lloyd considers that, but: “No,” he admits. “I can stop if you want, though.”

Zelos laughs. “Bastard, you know how sensitive core crystals are.” The anger in his words does not at all match the delight that’s boiling along their emotional link, the way he kind of leans into the touch.

“Yeah,” Lloyd says, grinning, a little smug.

He traces the outline of the crystal, slowly, memorizing its shape with his fingers as Zelos trembles. His fingers feel like they’re on fire. So does his face.

He has another idea.

“Hey, Zelos?” he asks.

“Y- Yeah?”

“I wanna try something.”

“Go for it.”

“Alright. Uh, work with me a little bit.”

Lloyd pushes gently against Zelos, moving his feet, crossing the two steps this closet lets him have until Zelos is up against the opposite wall. He wants to go right for it and also kind of doesn’t, so he kisses Zelos’ jaw instead, then his throat, working his way down until his lips meet Zelos’ burning hot core crystal.

It’s—Okay, it’s like kissing a fucking rock. But the way it makes Zelos’ air leave his lungs makes Lloyd want to do it again, so he does. A strained sound rumbles in Zelos’ throat. Lloyd leaves his lips right where they are.

“Lloyd, _Lloyd,_ that’s not fair!” Zelos whines, squirming. “That’s not fucking fair!”

Lloyd pulls his head up, a little bit, so he can look Zelos in the face. Zelos is grinning, eyes closed, cheeks aglow.

“Do you want me to stop?” Lloyd asks.

“No, fucker, do it again.”

Lloyd laughs, and he does. The taste is sharp and electric, Zelos’ ether in his mouth, Zelos melting under the contact. Lloyd feels abuzz and alive, the ability to undo Zelos like this more power than he really knows what to do with, but Zelos likes it, _really_ likes it, so Lloyd keeps peppering the crystal with kisses, delight flooding the stream of signals in his mind. It’s kind of intoxicating.

Zelos’ legs get weak, and he slides slowly down, Lloyd moving with him until they’re both on the floor. It’s- It’s really too cramped in here to be incredibly comfortable, but sitting in Zelos’ lap isn’t bad at all, and the way Zelos traces his fingers down Lloyd’s back is distracting in the most wonderful way. Lloyd kisses Zelos’ core harder.

“Not fair,” Zelos grumbles, sounding kind of breathless. “ _You_ don’t have a core crystal.”

Lloyd lifts his head up to look at Zelos again, tries not to get distracted by how beautiful Zelos looks illuminated by his own ether. Unable to stay still, he finds one of Zelos’ hands, running his thumb over the ether lines in Zelos’ palm. “I mean, I do, sort of,” he says.

Zelos shoots him an offended look. “I am _not_ kissing your dad’s crystal,” he says. “Especially since we both know you aren’t gonna feel it like I do.”

Lloyd laughs, but mostly because Zelos is pouting and it’s _cute_. He has a lot of things he wants to say, a lot of thoughts that go by too fast for him to keep up with, let alone find the words for. He feels briefly jealous ( _the only human-blade hybrid in the world and all it gets him is sensitivity to ether and immunity to ether poisoning? Not fair!_ ), then content ( _at least he gets to spoil Zelos like this even if Zelos can’t spoil him in return_ ), then distracted by the deeply satisfied look on Zelos’ face and the way his chin his framed by stark shadows created by his glowing crystal being one of the brightest sources of light in this closet. The sight makes something hot and urgent thrum in Lloyd’s gut.

He kisses Zelos on the lips again.

Zelos gets a hand behind Lloyd’s head, fingers knotting in Lloyd’s hair as he pulls Lloyd closer. Lloyd wraps his arms around Zelos’ body and clings, gladly crushing his arms between Zelos’ back and the wall if it means they can be this close to each other. Zelos takes the somewhat urgent kiss and slows it down, and Lloyd follows his lead, until the kiss is softer, briefly meeting lips on lips before exhaling, inhaling in unison, meeting again. It’s better, so much better, and Lloyd lets Zelos drown him in the sensation.

It’s wonderful it’s perfect he doesn’t want to think about anything else, though something desperate builds in his stomach anyway, it builds and it won’t stop rattling there.

“I love you so much,” he whispers into Zelos’ mouth, feeling like he hasn’t said it enough, couldn’t possibly ever say it enough. “I love you so so _so_ much.”

“I love you too,” Zelos answers, kissing him briefly, but a thread of concern passes along their emotional bleed. “Lloyd?” he asks.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lloyd says, laughing. He presses his forehead against Zelos’, needing the space to speak but not wanting to be any further apart than they already are. “It’s really silly?” He wishes he could take this fearful thing in his stomach and push it back down and forget about it—he’s literally in Zelos’ lap, arms wrapped tight around each other, Zelos is _here,_ Zelos isn’t _going anywhere,_ but…

( _—the sudden pain of resonance snapping, everything going right until it went very wrong, the sharp fear that was the last thing he felt from Zelos before radio silence for two straight days. Zelos was a blade and as an Aegis he kept his memories—even if they hadn’t rewritten the system—so dying wasn’t a thing Lloyd expected to worry about, because he’d be back, but_

_It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that Zelos could just be_

_Gone_ )

“Honey, it can’t be that silly if it’s making you feel like this,” Zelos counters, gentle, cupping Lloyd’s face in his hands.

Lloyd laughs again, embarrassed that the touch seems just about to send him to tears.

“I just- I know that what happened the other day was kind of an anomaly that has literally no chance of happening again,” Lloyd explains, still feeling silly despite what Zelos says. “But. You were _gone._ You were just _gone._ And we didn’t know if you were coming back and- and- It’s fine! ‘Cause you’re here now! And so it’s silly to still kind of be freaking out about that! But Zelos I- I almost lost you without ever getting to say I loved you and I’m?” He doesn’t know what else to say. He thinks that’s everything, even if he ended his sentence midway through.

“Oh, _Lloyd_ ,” Zelos says, and it’s so fond, so tender. “Believe me, honey, I was terrified I wasn’t coming back, either.” He tucks unruly strands of Lloyd’s hair behind his ears, then repeats the motion, and Lloyd relaxes into how soothing it is. “But I’m not going anywhere now. If Mythra wants to see me in person so bad, she can come over _here_.”

“Or maybe we should just stop messing around with dimensional travel entirely,” Lloyd suggests, laughing, but kind of serious.

“Maybe,” Zelos agrees. He leans in and pulls Lloyd closer, kissing him again. “I’m here, honey,” he whispers between kisses. “I’m here.”

Bathed in the glow of Zelos’ ether and the sensation of how _solid_ and _here_ Zelos is, relief and joy fill up the stream in Lloyd’s mind and he lets himself drown.

 


	6. tfw ether lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lloyd gets distracted easily. (Zelloyd snippet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S NO REASON FOR ME TO NOT POST THIS DRABBLE SO TAKE IT,

A creak of the bed. Weight behind him. Zelos, who’s laying on his side, shifts so he can look over his shoulder, which takes some squinting through unruly hair. He finds Lloyd halfway through crawling into the bed with him, but Lloyd’s stopped now that Zelos is looking at him, his smile suddenly sheepish, like he’s been caught red-handed. Zelos chuckles. It’s kind of cute?

“Uh,” Lloyd says, as eloquent as ever. “You mind?”

Zelos shrugs, flops back down. No, he doesn’t, not really, not at all. “I mean, this bed’s not the biggest I’ve ever slept in,” he tells Lloyd, “but by all means. Just don’t complain if it’s too tight of a squeeze.”

“I don’t mind,” Lloyd insists, which makes Zelos more fond than it has any right to. Of _course_ Lloyd doesn’t mind. He _likes_ when they have an excuse to put as little space between them as possible.

Zelos waits for Lloyd to settle, but, Lloyd doesn’t settle. He gets distracted, which, Zelos is plenty used to, but also—bare fingertips brush aside his hair to trace a familiar shape on Zelos’ left shoulder blade, and the touch makes Zelos shiver even though it’s really not cold at all. He… supposes this is what he gets for not wearing a shirt to bed, huh?

“Lloyd,” he says, voice quiet, feeling a little winded, but in a good way.

“Sorry,” Lloyd answers (he’s been spending too much time with Colette, but, she _is_ his other blade). “I just… you know.”

He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence because Zelos knows, oh, of _course_ Zelos knows. Lloyd’s fascinated with ether lines, even though he’s traced every inch of Zelos’ probably a million times before. Zelos shivers again, under Lloyd’s feather-light, curious touches. ( _The problem here is Zelos likes it too much to make Lloyd stop._ )

“They’re so _cool_ ,” Lloyd mumbles, partly a whine, entirely a petulant explanation. His fingers move from the circle at Zelos’ left shoulder and down the angular line that leads to another circle in the small of Zelos’ back. Lloyd traces that, too, humming softly.

Zelos exhales slowly, content, and closes his eyes. Lloyd could go at this all night, forgoing sleep and everything else, if Zelos let him. Zelos _shouldn’t_ let him, but right now Lloyd’s fingers trail like fire across his skin and it feels way too nice to tell Lloyd to stop and go to bed. Besides, if he lets Lloyd do this for a little while, then Lloyd will let Zelos pin him to the bed and kiss him and— _okay,_ maybe they won’t be getting any sleep tonight, but.

That’s fine, too.


	7. alone, not alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen, sometimes a ten-year-old girl picks up your core crystal and resonates with you, and sometimes you just end up adopting her."

The color purple engulfs her vision, something snappy and sharp singing under her veins before it all settles, and then a man—a blade—stands before her. Anna cranes her head back to look up at him—he’s really, _really_ tall—and isn’t sure if she should scowl or what so she just kind of stares, face somewhat blank. Faint confusion bubbles in the back of her mind. Probably from her blade.

( _Her_ blade.)

He looks down at her, eyebrows quirking a little bit upwards, but the emotion bleed tells her he’s fond, maybe a little amused, as he considers her.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “Got a name?”

“Anna Irving,” she answers, on reflex.

“Oh shit, last name and everything!” her blade— _her blade!!_ —laughs, deep from his belly, that fondness in their link bursting on his face as a wide grin as he leans back.

Anna isn’t sure if she likes this or hates this. Is he making fun of her?

“What’s your name?” she asks— _demands_ , really.

He sobers on the spot, though that faint smirk on his lips doesn’t really fade. “Malos,” he answers.

Anna raises her eyebrows now, surprised as she looks up at him.

“No last name?” she asks.

Malos takes it in stride with a shrug. “Guess not,” he says. “Blades are weird.”

Yeah, Anna thinks. They really are. She’s only met a handful in her short just-barely-thirteen years of life, but. All of them have been weird. She gets the feeling that Malos is going to be, too, and almost regrets picking him up, but.

Well, her chances of survival sure just doubled with him here, so, maybe better not to regret it yet.

“Hmm,” she says, aloud, deciding it’s Very important that he know she thinks he’s kind of weird.

“Hmm indeed, kid,” he echoes, but he’s not looking at her now, he’s examining their surroundings. There’s nothing around them. A forest in the distance, but. No buildings. No path. Nothing. It’s going to be very hard to find their way back to civilization from here.

( _This is why Grandma told her to never go north, Anna realizes, but, it doesn’t matter now!! It was the only way she had to go and! She tries not to think of her grandmother. The wound’s still kind of fresh._ )

Concern rings suddenly along the ether link connecting her to Malos, but when he looks to her, it’s mostly with confusion on his face, that faintly-amused smirk never leaving his lips. “Wanna tell me what you’re doing all the way out here?”

“No,” Anna says.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t want to tell him. She doesn’t want to think about it.

He scowls at her for a half second, and that smirk slowly fades. Good. Anna scowls back up at him, ready to out-stubborn him if she has to. Maybe he’s the adult, here, but _she’s_ the driver, which makes her in charge, she thinks? At the very least it means he can’t make her tell him _anything,_ she decides.

After a second, Malos shrugs.

“Alright,” he says. “Wanna tell me how you found my core crystal, then?”

Anna shrugs back. “Saw a rock, picked it up.”

“Classic story!” Malos laughs, but there’s an edge to it.

Anna looks him up and down. If they’re… stuck with each other, now, then she’d kind of like to know more about him than just his name.

“Tell me about yourself,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to sound as in-charge as she knows how.

Malos laughs at the display. “ _Kid,_ ” he says, and he’s _fond,_ which is awful. “I’m a _blade._ I just woke up! I’ve got no memories except, uh, the past five minutes, and my name. You know how it works!”

Horror slaps Anna in the face.

“I,” she begins.

Malos’ laughter instantly becomes horror as well, horror and surprise.

“Did- did you _not know_ ,” he begins.

“ _THAT’S MESSED UP!!_ ” Anna shouts, suddenly and very thoroughly feeling sorry for Malos. She had the basic idea about drivers and blades, because everyone did—about resonance, and how blades need drivers. She knew about the emotional bleed because she’d asked a blade who visited town once. But no one told her that blades _didn’t keep their memories._

( _Maybe if she’d actually gone to school, but, no. She didn’t regret being taught by her Grandma. Grandma is—was much nicer than the stuffy teacher, anyway._ )

Malos laughs, startled, somewhat angry.

“Well, _I_ didn’t build this system!” he says. “Blame the Architect!”

“I- I will!” Anna decides, then and there. She drops her arms from across her chest. Scowls. “What the heck!!”

That fondness bubbles up on their emotion link again. Anna scowls harder. If she thought punching Malos would do her any good, she would. Maybe she’d punch him anyway. The way Malos looks at her is like how her Grandma looks—used to look at babies and she is _not_ a baby.

“Look, Anna,” Malos says. “Love to stand around here all day, really. But you should be heading home soon, right?”

“No,” Anna stops that train of thought before he can pull it out of the station.

Malos stares at her. There’s that brief flash of concern again.

“Then, uh, where are you heading?” he asks.

Anna hesitates, because she really isn’t sure. She doesn’t know where the closest civilization is. Geography and maps are—were _not_ her Grandma’s strong suit, so they aren’t hers, either.

“North,” she says, finally. It’s the opposite direction of what she’s running from, even though she has no idea what’s north, and Grandma told her not to go north but. If north’s a bad idea, then she’ll be the only one heading this way.

Besides, she has a blade now. That’s… gotta increase her chances. Right?

“Alright,” Malos says. He doesn’t argue.

(But, Anna guesses, he doesn’t know the area any better than her, so why would he?)

They go north.

 

\- - -

 

North brings them to a cliff face. Much too high to scale, though honestly, who’d even _think_ of just scaling a cliff face? It goes on forever in both directions, cutting off a forest to the east, meeting more nothing to the west. Anna groans and sits right down in the dust, burying her face in her hands, slowly tearing at her hair.

She’s so frustrated she could cry, but she’s not going to cry _now,_ because Malos is _watching,_ and, this _sucks!!_ This sucks!!! They walked all this way—almost a full day of walking, for Anna, though it’s been only a few hours for Malos—and there’s _nothing._ No town. No people. Just a cliff.

Anna’s exhausted. She’s _starving._ Her legs are so sore from walking and all she wants to do is curl up in her bed while Grandma cooks her something but she doesn’t have a bed, now, and she doesn’t have a Grandma anymore, either. It’s just her and Malos, sitting at the bottom of this cliff, with nowhere to go, and no idea how to get there.

She has to do _something_ with the despair that’s burning in her chest, so Anna just takes a deep breath and she screams. Forget what Malos thinks. After the day she’s had, she’s pretty sure she deserves a good scream. Maybe she deserves a good cry, too.

“Oh thank fuck,” Malos says, when she stops. He plops down on the ground next to her. “Thought you were gonna hold that in for eternity.”

Anna glares, too offended to sob more than once, and she looks up at her blade. Malos chuckles, and that makes her kind of want to punch him. You know what. Why not! She reaches over and slugs him in the arm.

Malos just laughs a little brighter. “There you go, there you go!” he tells her. “Let some of it out!”

Anna glares harder, flexing her aching knuckles. Blades are made of some _tough stuff._

“It’s not funny!” she snaps, frustrated tears burning in her eyes. “So stop laughing at me! It’s not funny!”

Malos puts his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it isn’t, if it’s making you feel so shitty,” he relents, his tone a little softer. Concern rings loud and clear along their link, and that just makes Anna want to cry more, for different reasons. “You wanna talk about it? Can’t make you, but it might be nice to be in on the loop.”

Anna glares and glares and glares, but. He’s had to feel all of her frustration and despair up to this point, huh? He probably deserves an explanation. Especially if they’re stuck together now.

Especially if she wants to avoid killing both of them because she starved to death.

Anna slumps, curling in on herself. She ducks her head down, gripping her knees. The wound is still open and bleeding, and she has to reach into the mess and the pain to drag the explanation out. It _hurts,_ and she doesn’t want to _think about it,_ but—

“They burned my village down,” she whispers.

( _She can still hear the shouts, see the fire, smell the smoke._ )

Something sharp and somewhat murderous flashes through their link.

“Who did?” Malos demands. He isn’t laughing.

“The- the soldiers,” Anna mumbles.

Anger, confusion, from Malos.

“ _Soldiers_!?” he repeats.

Anna remembers he doesn’t have any memories.

“We’re at war,” she explains, hollow.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Malos spits. He’s so angry and horrified she could choke on it. Anna does her best not to. At least, elbows deep in her own pain, it’s pretty easy to stay grounded in emotions that belong to her, and not someone else.

She could stop here, actually. But she’s already dragged most of it out of the wound. Might as well get the last bit on the table for Malos to see.

“They killed my grandma,” she whispers.

Malos reels like she threw the bloody mess of pain right at his face. Maybe she did. Cold cold cold horror slides down her spine, and anger bubbles up in her throat. Malos lifts his hands. Drops them.

“Fuck,” he says. And then: “Shit. I. _Shit_.”

Anna feels kind of like she wants to laugh, but Malos’ horror and her own despair roots her where she is, frozen by the memories she kind of wishes she couldn’t still see. She got out because she was fast—fastest kid in the village, which Pietro always hated, but Pietro’s probably dead now too—and none of the soldiers cared enough to _chase_ a girl running away from them, not when she was well past the village borders.

( _She still ran, anyway. Longer than she had to. What else was she supposed to do?_ )

Malos starts to move, then stop suddenly, pulling himself back.

“Can I hug you?” he asks.

Anna blinks.

“Uh. I guess.”

Malos responds by wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close, tucking her head under his chin. He holds her tightly. She feels… small. But in a good way? All of her despair starts to melt, and she pushes her face into his chest, letting the tears fall when they come this time. Malos holds her, and he doesn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice kind of tight. “It’s gonna be okay. Okay? I’m here. I’m here.”

“Okay,” Anna whispers.

She isn’t sure how long they sit there, just that she really _really_ doesn’t want to move. It’s nice to not be alone. But after a while, Malos shifts his weight.

“Alright,” he says. “Okay. We gotta…” She can practically _feel_ the gears start churning in his mind, as he sets himself full force into fixing the problems around them. “When’s the last time you ate, kid?”

Anna shrugs. “Yesterday?”

“Humans aren’t supposed to go that long, right?”

“No.”

“Thought so.” Malos lets out a long breath then lets go of Anna, looking at their surroundings like he hopes to find something. “Shit, and you’re supposed to drink water more frequently than that, huh? Maybe we should start there.” His eyes settle on the forest. “You know if there’s a stream or a river or something in there?”

“Yeah,” Anna answers. “…Near the village, anyway. Dunno about this far out.”

“We’ll look,” Malos says. “And we can chop up some local wildlife for food on the way—gonna be more of that in the forest than out here.” He gets to his feet and helps her to hers, squeezing her hand. “It’s gonna be fine, promise.”

She squeezes his hand back, and doesn’t let go. She kind of needs the reassurance right now.

“Okay,” she says. “I trust you.”

Malos grins at her. “You better!” he says, but it’s fond fond fond.

( _This time, Anna lets herself drown in it._ )


	8. wives and sisters, brothers and gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna meets Martel, and a little more than than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you just wanted to do one thing and then spent 2000 words setting it up and then another 5000 carrying it out. i'd been sitting on this for a while though, snippets of ideas that kept haunting me, so i'm glad i got (most of them) out

“Kind of wish I got to meet Martel,” Anna remarks one morning. They’re still in Meltokio’s castle, the peace talks mostly finished, but no one here is stupid enough to just _kick out_ the woman who ended the war, ( _nor the group responsible for rewiring the blade network, and_ definitely _not the Aegises!_ ), so their rooms in the castle are secured probably for as long as they want them.

Breakfast is a quiet, disjointed affair with a family as large as this where no one can agree on the proper time of morning to rise, so it’s just Anna and Kratos and Lloyd and Colette in the central room of Anna’s suite, munching on breakfast someone else prepared for them.

Anna speaks around a mouthful of muffin. “I mean, it _really_ was difficult to even attempt meeting up with all of you while you were traveling, but—It feels like I just missed her, you know?” She sends a rueful smile towards Kratos, who she knows would have wanted them to meet just as much as she does. “It’s not fair.”

“You can still meet her,” Colette says, brightly. She’s been quiet all morning, but Colette is like that, liking to sit and absorb interactions around her a lot of the time, studying all the ways people meet that she never quite got to learn, isolated as she was until Martel.

Anna turns, squints.

“Oh,” Lloyd says, understanding first. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like she’s dead. She’s holding up the network now. Can’t get more alive than that, really!”

Anna narrows her eyes a little further, as does Kratos, as he turns to the conspiring children.

“Martel and Mithos can only interact with blades,” Kratos counters, slowly, trying to keep up with them.

“Blades, _and_ any driver of any Aegis,” Colette counters in return, sharp and somewhat playful in a way that’s still so much like Martel. The two of them left irreversible impacts on each other, things marked in much deeper, much subtler ways than the spiderweb of green on Colette’s core crystal. “I can just swap my resonance from Lloyd to Anna—” Lloyd’s already nodding along, to show he’s okay with this “—for a night so they can meet.”

Anna’s a driver, so she knows what Colette is offering is no insignificant thing, even with the blade system rewired the way it is now. ( _Perhaps, in a few decades, the populace of this world will get used to blades swapping resonances like they swap clothes, but not yet, not any time soon._ )

“If you’re sure…” Anna says, slowly, carefully, but Colette is nodding before she can even finish.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I promise!” Colette insists. Her hand reaches up to her core crystal, tracing familiar scars—anyone who knows her knows she does this when thinking of Martel, now that Martel is gone. “Believe me…” her voice gets a little quieter, but does not waver. “She wants to meet you just as badly.”

( _It’s something Kratos is still adjusting to: that Colette knows so much of Martel—her thoughts and desires—so intimately, even after she’s gone. Colette likely knows Martel better than Kratos knows her, even though she and Martel did not have years together._ )

“Oh!” Colette says then, suddenly, lighting up with a realization. “I should probably warn her before we do anything, though.” She gathers her partially eaten food and stands. “I’ll go do that now—tonight sound good?” she asks of Anna.

Anna nods, quickly, trying to keep up, because this all happened sort of fast but she’s _excited,_ she is, she wants to know the woman that was Kratos’ first real friend in this life, his blade, his sister, the only woman who might know him better than she does.

“Let’s just hope I’m not too excited to sleep,” she jokes, and Colette laughs with her, before hurrying off.

 

\- - -

 

“I’d love to,” Martel says, before Colette’s quite even finished asking. “Are you sure, though?”

( _Ending resonance with Lloyd is more than just breaking away from her driver, but also from her brother, and Martel knows that that’s the more difficult bit_.)

“It’s fine!” Colette insists. “It’s only for a night. So, no big deal.”

Martel knows Colette well enough that Colette will bend over backwards for someone else even if it _was_ a big deal, but—she knows that this, really, isn’t a big deal, either. And Colette will not be swayed. And…

She _does_ want to meet Anna. The woman Kratos fell in love with, married, had a child with. A woman like that must be someone really special.

“Tonight sounds good,” Martel says.

“What are you two plotting over here?” Mithos asks, suddenly appearing in their section of the dream. Martel felt him coming ( _of course she did_ ), and Colette’s spent enough time in the dreamspace with the two of them that she’s used to him doing this, so neither of them are startled or surprised.

“I’m going to bring Anna to meet Martel,” Colette says in explanation, grinning at Martel’s brother. ( _She’s been very, very grateful for the time she’s been allowed to get to know him, because Martel has imprinted him on her heart and it’s nice to see with her own eyes all the things Martel has always believed about him._ ) She does not know the weight of the words she speaks.

But she does understand the way Mithos’ smile is suddenly gone, the light, somewhat mischievous expression replaced with something kind of close to horror, strong enough to make the dreamspace tremble, a little. Clouds fill the sky, and the grassy hill shifts, for half a second, remnants of a dusty town trying to invade, before the hill imagery wins out and persists.

“Oh,” Mithos says. He gets to his feet, intention to leave written in both the action and the way he gathers ether around him.

“ _Mithos_ ,” Martel says, reproving.

“I- _Sis_.” Mithos does not whine, exactly, but there is something pained in his tone as he looks down at her, eyes full of regret and so very very very old for that face. ( _He is older than Colette, and Colette is older than she looks, but still it is sometimes hard to forget_.) He sends a hasty glance at Colette, but must decide her presence here doesn’t matter, that there’s no good reason for her not to hear his excuse. She knows the answer he gives is not entirely the truth, though. “I just don’t think the two of you will want your meeting to get interrupted by _me._ We- Anna and I… didn’t really get off on the right foot, when I was alive—”

“Then perhaps you should fix that,” Martel says.

Mithos squirms, more like a child than perhaps he’s looked in years, but eternal freedom in the network and the dreamspace tends to do that to a blade, years of bitterness slowly healing in his sister’s presence, in the reality that in the end he really did save bladekind, just as he wanted.

( _Colette knows Genis has been to see him, too, and knows that that is helping, as well_.)

“It’s…” Mithos begins, then hardens. “I don’t want to intrude. She’s coming up here to meet _you._ Not to see me.”

He’s gone before either of them can say anything.

 

\- - -

 

“Well?” Martel asks, later.

Mithos hesitates, but… lying to his sister is something he could never do. That’s not how they work.

And so:

“I tried to kill her,” he admits.

Shame boils up thick in his stomach as he does, in his throat. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud to anybody. The weight of the sin clings to him, heavier now that clarity has returned to him, as he can reflect on the ways her supposed-death broke Kratos. Knowing that she is alive has lightened the load, but only a little.

Martel doesn’t say anything, and maybe she doesn’t need him to elaborate—( _they way they are now, one core crystal, living constantly in a space where lines between your feelings and someone else’s blur_ )—but he explains anyway, because maybe he needs it, because someone deserves it.

“I was… jealous,” he says, with little hesitation. “Kratos loved her. And I hated her. Of course I did. She was _human_.”

( _He is trying not to be so hateful, but it is hard to forget what humanity did to him, to all of them_. _He does not know if he will ever forgive all of them. He’s not sure if he’s ready to even make exceptions, like his sister has, like Kratos has._ )

“Mithos,” Martel begins, but Mithos doesn’t let her, turning away from her in his anger.

“I know! It was wrong. I had no right. Not to murder her. Not to turn the cannon on while Zelos was in it, to steal his ether to do the act, like I was- like I was _one of them_.” He spits the words with venom and disgust, hateful of his own actions, of the boy he’d slipped into being. “I killed Zelos in the act, too. But I guess that makes us even.” He reaches up to trace their shared core crystal—the cracks have healed, but the memories haven’t. It’s possible the memories never will.

Martel considers her brother a long moment, wanting to cross the short distance between them, the distorted pictures that the dreamspace plays back in response to Mithos’ turmoil irrelevant. Instead she stays where she is.

He had no right, no.

But.

“Have you apologized?” she asks.

“Haven’t really had the chance to speak to Zelos,” Mithos answer, even though she knows he knows that’s not what she was asking.

“To Kratos?” she elaborates, just to make sure she’s absolutely clear to him.

Mithos shudders. He still doesn’t look at her.

“He… doesn’t know I meant it,” he whispers, guilt weighing heavy, oh so heavy on his soul. “I told him I didn’t pick that location—”

“I think he knows,” Martel interrupts. “But you know him…”

“Rather not think about it,” Mithos finishes, with a sigh. He wipes the back of his hand over wet eyes.

“You should apologize—to both of them, all three of them,” ( _Zelos deserves the apology, too_ ), “But…” Martel shrugs. “If you’d rather not do it tonight, I understand that.”

“You just don’t want your meeting interrupted,” Mithos shoots at her, his smile sharp and bright again.

Martel laughs, but she’s definitely caught in the act. “I don’t, truthfully,” she admits, with no guilt. “But if you want to apologize tonight, I won’t stop that, either.”

“…I wonder if we can get Kratos up here, at the same time,” Mithos says, instead of answering directly, his mind on another train of thought, or maybe still on the same one. Martel could follow, either way. “I know the network’s dreamspace is a little different than the Aegis’ dreamspace, but… maybe there’s overlap? It might be nice to have the both of them up here at once.”

( _Martel wonders if he’d like to apologize to both of them at once._ )

She smiles, a little, because this is the little brother she loves best, the one always pushing boundaries, always experimenting.

“It won’t hurt to try,” Martel tells him. “And somehow I doubt we could convince Zelos to end _his_ resonance with Lloyd just to bring Kratos into the Aegis’ dreamspace.”

Mithos doesn’t laugh as brightly as Colette might have, because he doesn’t understand the Zelos-and-Lloyd thing like they do ( _he hasn’t been in resonance with the both of them at the same time!_ ), but he does laugh, shoulders relaxing, a little more at ease.

“I will apologize,” he promises Martel, softly, as he turns to look at her again. “Maybe tonight, maybe not. But I will.”

Martel grins at him.

“Good.”

 

\- - -

 

Anna does have trouble falling asleep that night. Like her son, the anticipation and excitement makes her too wired to really settle down, and knowing that she _needs_ to sleep to do the thing she wants to do doesn’t help matters at all.

Truthfully, neither does the fact she’s in resonance with an Aegis. Her awareness of Colette is a soft but loud ball in the back of her mind, so much ether gathered in one spot, new and intriguing. She’s never had a blade other than Malos. It’s weird having two? And it’s hard not to pick at all the ways she’s tied to Colette now, even though she’s had all afternoon to pick at them. Right now, Colette’s concern and gentle encouragement ( _as well as persistent nervous excitement_ , _which Anna doesn’t think is entirely hers_ ) flood their emotional bleed, so much so it nearly drowns out the comfort that Malos’ constant presence provides, his steadiness, gentleness, faint exasperation.

“It’ll be fine,” Malos tells her, kissing her on the forehead. “You’ll do great.”

Anna laughs at him, scowls at him, ( _wonders briefly how he feels about Colette being tied in their resonance, at the moment._ ) “I’m not _worried_ ,” she protests, glaring at the ceiling like it’ll make her fall asleep faster. “I’m just excited. Too excited.”

Malos hums, his hands and weight still placed on the bed from leaning over to kiss her. “Want me to go get your husband?” he asks. “I know how having a warm body with you helps you sleep.”

He’s right about that, but wrong in assuming Kratos is a warm body that will ever actually promote a desire to _sleep_ in her. She rolls over enough to reach his arm and pull on him gently, even though it serves as nothing more than a request from this angle. “You’re already here,” she tells him, somewhat playful.

Malos laughs. “Can I at least change into my pajamas, first?”

( _Even though she’s done it a probably a million times, now, sleeping with Malos’ arms wrapped protectively around her makes her feel like she’s thirteen all over again, wandering the world with a blade she stumbled upon because she didn’t have a home to go back to anymore. She’s known Malos longer than she hasn’t. The blade who protected her. The man who raised her. The father who split his core crystal with her to save her life._

 _Falling asleep in his arms, lulled out of her excitement by the steadiness of his breathing and the endless calm he passes along their emotional link—it’s the easiest thing she’s ever done._ )

 

\- - -

 

The dreamspace provides them with a bubbling stream at the bottom of a cliff face—Colette preferring to recreate whatever images of nature she can. The sky settles at sunrise from Colette’s influence. Martel sits on one of the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, eyes bright when she sees her visitors.

“What the hell? You guys can just do this in your dreams every night?” Anna asks, one hand gripping Colette’s, looking around in delight and awe. ( _Her emotions, strangely enough, have the same sort of feel about them that Lloyd’s do._ )

Colette giggles, a little.

“Aegises can,” she explains.

“Okay good, or I was about to be _really_ jealous of Malos,” Anna says. She squeezes Colette’s hand briefly ( _nervousness excitement nervousness passing along between them_ ) before letting go and approaching Martel. “Hi?” she says.

She’s not sure what she expected, meeting this woman, but somehow Anna had never pictured the Aegis with this somewhat mischievous smile and glinting eyes. She watches as Martel fidgets with her hands, then pushes herself to her feet. Before Anna’s fully processed what’s happening, Martel’s crossed the distance between them and wrapped her in a hug.

“Oh!” Anna says. It takes her a second, but she returns the hug.

( _Colette finds a rock to sit on and watch, content to observe, but too nosy to leave—it would be difficult, leaving, anyway. She’s the only reason Anna’s even here._ )

Martel squeezes gently, then lets go, hands trailing down Anna’s arms to find her hands and grip them as she looks the other woman over. Anna Irving. Kratos’ _wife._ Martel can see the Lloyd in her face, in her slightly dumbstruck smile, the shape of the nose, the remnants of baby fat on her cheeks. She looks… only barely older than Lloyd, actually, but Martel’s answer for that is found in the triangular piece of purple crystal sitting in Anna’s collarbone.

“So you’re Anna Irving,” Martel says, her smile bright, as she studies Anna up and down. “Kratos never really talked about you, considering…”

“He thought I was dead?” Anna finishes, with a bitter smile. “Yeah. He didn’t talk about you much, either.”

“In his defense, I _was_ dead, until the humans decided to fuse me with Colette,” Martel’s smile is equally bitter, but it softens as she flashes a smile towards the girl she speaks of, one of the closest friends she ended up having, her younger sister, in truth.

Anna laughs, sharing the somewhat bitter, somewhat grateful feeling. “Both of us saved by miracles, hm? I’m sensing a common thread.” Her eyes twinkle, voice full of dry sarcasm. “Wonder what that common thread could be.”

Martel squints at Anna, confused, and Anna remembers with a flush of shame that she’s the only one here who knows the truth about the Architect. It’s a good thing Martel doesn’t ask, finding her answer instead in the scars on Anna’s right arm, which she traces with gentle fingers—a healer’s touch.

“The Architect saved me,” Anna explains, before Martel can ask. “But having Literally God’s ether channeled through my tiny human body didn’t exactly do wonders for my arm.”

Martel squints, troubled, perhaps something a little more. ( _It’s an expression Colette recognizes, wishes she didn’t—the emotion she knows sitting in Martel’s chest a little like when she and Mithos couldn’t come to an agreement, that faint taste of betrayal._ )

“He can… do that?” Martel asks.

“Well, he channeled the power to Malos, my blade,” Anna elaborates, extracting her left hand so she can tap the core crystal she shares with Malos. “And considering…”

“Oh.” Understanding passes Martel’s face—she understands how this is possible, how it explains the scars on Anna’s skin—but there’s still a thread of discomfort in her, because she _doesn’t_ understand why her father would have saved Anna, some random human, and not her or Mithos, his _children,_ if he had the means to…

Anna reads the expression, takes a guess.

“I don’t understand why he saved me, either,” she says. ( _She knows EXACTLY why he saved her._ ) “Or—it doesn’t make a lot of sense?” She scowls, clenching her hand into a fist, squeezing Martel’s hand in her other. “That he’d save me, and not you.”

( _Kratos is not the kind of man who’d put one family member over another, not with ease. That his reflection—and the Architect_ is _the reflection, in Anna’s eyes, because the man she loves is not the man who created this world—would save only one of them makes no sense at all._ )

“Maybe Mithos was right,” Martel muses, bitterness making her expression foul. “Maybe he didn’t care about us, after all.”

The sky darkens to night under Martel’s influence, the peaceful stream bubbling aggressively, almost flooding its borders. Anna recoils in Martel’s grasp, because, no, no, that _can’t_ be it.

( _She knows the Aegises do not look they way they do on accident_.)

“That’s not true!” Anna insists, fire in her voice. “I’m sure the Architect loved you—”

“And yet he let us suffer in the cannons, and saved your life,” Martel counters, her anger a cold and sharp thing. “No wonder Mithos went on and on about he loved humans more than us blades!”

The waters rise a little higher. Colette curls in on herself, head ducking down. ( _She has a guess, on what Anna knows that Martel does not, but it’s not her secret to share._ )

“Martel, please,” Colette whispers. Eager to defend someone she doesn’t think deserve this hate, having already put pieces together of what she understands about the Architect and his predicament, she speaks up: “Maybe he just couldn’t. An ether transfer is a very simple thing, but freeing you or Mithos from the cannons—”

Martel scowls, because Colette is right ( _and Martel knows that now she and Mithos are anchored to the network, they are unable to leave, so perhaps it was the same for their Father, and maybe because he wasn’t an Aegis, meeting blades in dreams wasn’t something he could ever do_ ), but she’s still _hurt_ , so she pulls her hand away from Anna’s and takes a step back, hugging herself as she scowls.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it,” she mutters, eyes dark, bitterness still on her tongue. “He’s gone. We’ll never know. There’s no use agonizing over it.”

“I know he loved you, Martel,” Anna insists. It’s a fact. The sky is blue. Fresh grass is green. Kratos Aurion loves his family.

Martel raises her eyebrows, amused. “And what makes you say that? You somehow know him better than I do?”

Anna hesitates. This… is something Kratos thought it better no one else know, but.

She feels like Martel needs to know.

Like Martel _deserves_ to know.

So.

“Because he’s Kratos,” she says.

Martel blinks.

“What?”

“Oh,” Colette says, softly. Though truthfully, she’d already had a hunch.

( _His eyes were the same color as Lloyd’s._ )

“The Architect,” Anna explains. “Is Kratos. Not _our_ Kratos, but… a version of him? A reflection of him.” That was the right word. “We’re all… reflections of people the Architect once knew, once loved.”

Clarity lights across Martel’s face before too long.

“His Cruxis Crystal,” she whispers, breath caught in her throat. “Of _course._ Why would the network bother generating new data when it could just reuse old data?” She sits down where she is, right in the dirt. The sky remains dark and full of stars, a splattering of rainbow pinpricks above them, but the stream’s waters calms down.

Anna squats down too, not sure if she’s going to have to move, yet, if Martel’s going to need a hug or something. She… seems to be taking the news well?

“Though it still doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” Anna continues, body tight with her confusion and her frustration. She wishes she could have punched the Architect in the face. Is delighted that Kratos got the chance to. “There’s no way Kratos would abandon his family.”

“Unless… he had no other choice,” Colette whispers, quiet, thinking of how he had to turn his back on Mithos.

“Unless he had no other choice,” Martel agrees, sighing. She pulls her legs up to her chest, hugging them and resting her chin on her knees.

Anna opens and closes her hands. Thinks about sitting down, but waits, for the moment.

“You… good?” she asks. “I… probably should have warned you before I dropped that news on you. Kratos is gonna be pissed.” She laughs, a little. Not that she actually fears Kratos’ anger. ( _Maybe it’ll even be better for him, if someone else knows._ ) “It’s… a lot, huh?”

“It’s…” Martel hesitates, choosing her words. Something she has in common with Kratos? Or maybe this is just a thing too big to easily capture. “It makes sense,” she says, carefully. “But…” She laughs, sounding a little lost. “My father… _Kratos_ … the same person?”

Anna smiles tightly as fondness and regret both bubble in her chest. Martel looks so small, all of a sudden, dwarfed by the realization that lays before her. Anna has to remind herself that Martel is both physically and literally older than her. She bounces on her heels. She wants to move to comfort Martel, but Colette has already silently come over to do so, sitting next to Martel and curling into her side.

“Sorry,” Anna says.

“No, no, I’m glad I know,” Martel counters, firmly. She plays idly with Colette’s hair, like the action soothes her. “I’ll just… need a moment to process.”

Anna can let her have that.

“Okay,” she says, and she sits.

 

\- - -

 

( _“Because he’s Kratos.”_ )

Ether roars in Mithos’ ears as he pulls himself away from Martel’s section of the dream—yes, he was eavesdropping, so what!—and into the network, fingers frantically searching for a familiar signal.

( _“The Architect is Kratos.”_ )

He finds it, head pounding, wraps his fingers around it and pulls himself into the port.

Like usual, the dreamspace doesn’t properly form until he’s in it, an Aegis’ influence necessary to create something like this. Mithos constructs something hastily, mind spinning too fast to be careful, needing answers too badly to really mind. Derris-Kharlan, because that’s on his mind. The network, as he watched his father reach his hand in and remove his Cruxis Crystal—

His father.

 _Kratos_?

( _“Not our Kratos, but… a version of him?” Anna’s voice echoes in his mind. “A reflection of him. We’re all… reflections of people the Architect once knew, once loved.”_ )

Kratos— _his_ Kratos—appears after a moment, looking somewhat bewildered until his eyes settle on Mithos, and then he relaxes. Slightly. Not as much as normal. His eyes seem to be fixed on their location, standing up by the network as they are, bathed in teal light and clearly uncomfortable.

“Hello, Mithos,” Kratos says.

“I need you to explain,” Mithos responds, trembling.

Kratos’ eyes narrow, defensive. His eyes dart towards the Cruxis Crystal in the network again. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Explain… what?” he asks.

Mithos fumbles for the words, but it’s faster to just pull up the memories.

( _A bubbling stream a dark sky Martel recoiling in anger then horror as Anna hesitates at first and then makes her decision, tells them the truth._ )

Kratos staggers back as if he’s been punched in the stomach.

“I,” he stammers.

“Well?” Mithos demands.

“It’s,” Kratos tries, but he’s making that face, voice tilted like he doesn’t want to say it or doesn’t know how. Mithos scoffs, angry and panicked, ether singing a frantic song in his veins. He knows what he wants so he just reaches into Kratos’ mind and pulls the memories out.

Derris-Kharlan shifts around them. They stand on a balcony elsewhere on the comet. The stars seem oppressive, the air too thick, a voice rings out around them—

( _“What’s your name? You’re real one.”_

 _“I’m not sure you’ll believe me.”_ )

“Mithos,” Kratos warns, but Mithos keeps pulling.

The sensation of hands gripping his own, vision filled with sad eyes and a sadder smile.

( _“This world, this universe, is a reflection of another.”_ )

The words wash over him, the explanation, and he understands, of course he understands, but the blurring of Kratos’ memories and the implication of his father’s words make Mithos feel like he’s going to be sick. He slaps the back of his hand to his mouth as he doubles over. His ether burns through his veins, wild and angry, searching for an anchor.

Kratos’ hand finds his shoulder.

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know. I don’t think any of us were supposed to know.”

“It’s- fine,” Mithos gasps. He trembles under Kratos’ hand, eyes squeezed shut. This is what he gets, for digging, for being impatient, but he’s always been impatient, dissatisfied with what he has been given. “It’s not your fault.”

He hates how it all makes sense. The sadness that seemed to cling to his father. How his father never shared memories of home, of who he was before he became the god of their world. The way his father would look at him, so often.

( _The startled laugh of delight and something more pained, the first time Mithos had sprouted wings, the initial confusion over their color, and the same repeated not seconds later when Martel discovered hers_ —)

“I just… he’s… _you_ ,” Mithos whispers, not sure what to do with this information.

( _He’s always looked up to Kratos, relied on Kratos. Subconsciously, has he always known?_

 _Or maybe it’s just a coincidence._ )

“A reflection of me,” Kratos corrects gently, and Mithos is so startled and fond that he laughs, because Kratos is always, _always,_ so careful with his words. “Or… I’m a reflection of him. I suppose he was here first.”

There’s a lot of things that Mithos is feeling, all of them too big to put into words, he thinks. He leans into Kratos, closing the distance between them to wiggle into a familiar embrace. Kratos pulls him close, hand to the back of Mithos’ head and fingers in his hair, tucking Mithos’ head under his chin.

( _Mithos thinks perhaps that Kratos was a better father to him than—_

 _No. A better friend. A brother. And that’s what he needed, more than anything else._ )

“Thank you, Kratos,” he whispers, certain that he never said it enough, in all of their centuries together. ( _He took so much of what Kratos did for him for granted._ ) “I’m… alright. It’ll just be a bit before I process it all, I think.”

Kratos’ laugh is short and helpless. “Tell me about it.”

There’s silence, for a moment, and the dreamspace trembles around them. Dead grass replaces crystal floors, day-blue sky overshadows the stars.

“There’s… something else you should know, I think, Mithos,” Kratos whispers.

Mithos shifts, pulls away enough that he can look up at his older brother, his most faithful friend.

“Yeah?”

“It’ll be faster if I just…”

Kratos finishes by touching their foreheads together, and that’s followed by a brief stream of memories.

( _Anger boiling in his stomach and under his tongue. “Why didn’t you help them?” Your children my friends my family that you abandoned—_

 _“My lifeforce was tied to Derris-Kharlan.” The pervasive image of an empty ornamentation of gold, somewhere where a core crystal—Cruxis Crystal—should go but there isn’t one there and that’s more unnerving, somehow. “Leaving would have killed me instantly.”_ )

The stream cuts off there, somewhat abrupt.

Kratos holds Mithos by the shoulder, his grip tight but cautious, as if he fears Mithos might shatter in his hands.

“It’s… I’m not sure it excuses what he did,” Kratos whispers. “And I still think he should have tried—something. Anything. But…”

“It’s alright,” Mithos says, knowing Kratos is going to say his father didn’t leave him because he didn’t care. It doesn’t matter if his father ever loved him or not, really. He’s built a new family. That’s enough. “You came and saved me. And I think—I think I’m happier, that way.”

Mithos knows Kratos well enough to know that this simple expression of affection has winded him completely, but Mithos stands by it. He laughs a little at his brother, grins at him, so so so grateful to have Kratos in his life.

He…

Owes Kratos an apology, huh?

“Hey, Kratos…” he whispers.

“Yes?”

“I…” The words are like lead in his mouth, but he forces them out, because he promised Martel, and Kratos… Kratos deserves to know. Kratos deserves to not go another second in denial or uncertainty. Kratos deserves this apology, more than anything else. “You know… the cannon blast, that almost killed Anna?”

Kratos goes rigid, grips Mithos a little too tight.

“What… about it…?” he asks, like he doesn’t want to.

Mithos exhales, long and slow, trying to gather his courage for the words.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he admits, and the words are so heavy but somehow his chest is lighter. “I knew exactly where I was aiming, what I was doing. And I’m sorry. I almost took so much from you—I _did_ take fifteen years from you, took the privilege of getting to watch Lloyd grow up, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He clings to Kratos’ shirt, even though Kratos has every right to shove him away. He feels like he should be crying but everything in him seems to be frozen.

Kratos doesn’t say anything.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Mithos continues. “But you deserved to know. And believe me when I say that there’s—there’s literally nothing that I regret more. I’m sorry.”

( _He can’t say that enough, either._ )

“It’s alright—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say it’s alright, Kratos!” Mithos spits. His head is pressed against Kratos’ chest. He doesn’t let go of Kratos’ shirt, rage and despair boiling in his belly. “I almost killed your wife! Your son! That’s not okay!!”

“But they are alive,” Kratos argues, gentle, more gentle than Mithos deserves.

“That doesn’t make it okay, _nothing makes it okay_ ,” Mithos says, his throat like ice.

Kratos sighs, running his hand through Mithos’ hair, a repeating, soothing gesture. “No,” he admits. “But the past is behind us. And hating you… is the last thing I want to do. So thank you for apologizing. I forgive you.”

Mithos trembles. It’s hard to argue with that. And he- _he_ doesn’t want Kratos to hate him, either. It’s more than he deserves, but he clings to it, clings to Kratos, and lets Kratos hold him, and:

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

 

\- - -

 

“Are you two… really sure about this?” Colette asks, standing a safe distance away.

“I’m pretty sure!” Anna calls back, bright, her smile sharp and delighted. She bounces on her heels, center of gravity low, spinning a dagger in her left hand. Martel would ask what’s wrong with her right, but she’s seen the scars, can _feel_ the way the ether channels in Anna’s right arm are all burned and frayed.

Martel does her best to remember not to stand too rigid—it’s been some time since she’s been in a fight, friendly or otherwise—her own sword casting a blinding green glow on the surrounding dusty brown from where it sits in her right hand. Somewhere in deciding to spar, the dreamspace had taken their scenery and shifted it, painting a circle of rope in the middle of a small town, the surrounding buildings looking in constant need of repair. Something about the place and how the dreamspace has lovingly rendered it rings the sensation of _home_ within Martel. She wonders if it’s Anna’s.

“Might be fun,” Martel agrees, with a soft shrug. Anna’s excitement is a little contagious, making a smile pull at her own lips. And, Anna’s right. It’ll help get her mind off of other things.

Colette sighs ( _Martel aches for the stream of connection between them, because she has to turn her eyes to see Colette’s exasperated fondness and resignation, she can’t just FEEL it anymore_ ), and then she grins, bright enough to match the gleam in Anna’s eyes.

“Okay,” Colette says. There’s a swell of power around her. “Anna!” she calls.

Anna looks up at the shout, then drops the knife—which vanishes the moment it is unneeded, as is the way of the dreamspace—and reaches up her hand to catch Colette’s sword. The pink glow illuminates her wide grin and wild eyes. There’s something loud and open in all of Anna’s movements, expressions. It reminds Martel a little of Lloyd.

“Your move first,” Martel calls to Anna. “Least I can do for you, since I doubt you’re familiar with that sword.”

“Weight’s not too different from Malos’,” Anna answers. Malos, Anna’s blade, Anna’s adopted father, Martel knows. She’s already met him. Anna adjusts her weight and positioning to match her new weapon. Coils like a viper about to strike.

Martel watches.

Breathes.

Jumps back and raises her sword to her hip, catching Colette’s as Anna lunges forward and swings it upwards. The two Aegis swords collide in a fireworks show of pink and green. Anna laughs.

“Faster than I thought you might be,” Anna says, sharp and grinning.

Martel grins back, showing all her teeth. “ _Aegis,”_ she counters.

“First time I’ve had the privilege to meet one of the originals,” Anna replies, as she pulls back, right arm bent behind her back so it’s out of the way, and starts pacing around Martel, clockwise. Martel mirrors the movement, as Anna cocks her head to the side and shrugs. “Well. Other than your little brother, but I’m not sure that counts.”

“You met Mithos?” Martel asks, surprised.

Anna nods, short. “Kratos introduced us once,” she explains. “But he didn’t stay long, and didn’t say much. Easy to tell he hated me.”

Martel shudders, as a recent memory drags itself through her mind. ( _Mithos’s voice, sharp and cold, words spoken with zero hesitation. “Kratos loved her. And I hated her.”_ )

She’s so winded by it that she almost trips over her own feet trying to get away when Anna moves again.

She shakes the memory out of her head. Breathes in the sharp, electric taste of charged ether. Wraps both hands around the hilt of her sword and moves forward, stab and lunge. Anna steps to the side and forward to meet Martel, hilt of her sword colliding with Martel’s gut.

Martel laughs, as soon as she has the air too. “Learn that from Kratos?”

Anna smirks.

“Maybe.”

Martel shakes herself. Sharpens her attention. Step step lunge, swing clash swing block sidestep, catch Anna’s leg when Anna tries to kick her in the hip. Another move Martel recognizes from Kratos. Anna laughs. Hops a little to keep her balance. Waggles her eyebrows at Martel. She looks like she’s having the time of her life.

( _Then again, how many people can say they sparred with an Aegis in the dreamspace? Anna… is the only person Martel knows who can, actually. So maybe she deserves this joy._ )

Martel could let go of Anna. Or she could use her grip on Anna’s leg to yank Anna towards her, banish her sword, shove her elbow into Anna’s stomach and use the momentum to send them both to the ground.

“Ow, fuck!” Anna curses, but she sounds delighted.

Martel laughs, knees in the dirt, the rest of her weight mostly on Anna. She feels breathless in all the good ways, her ether pumping fast to keep up with her exertion. She rolls and flop on her back next to Anna in the dirt.

“That was fun,” Anna remarks, pushing herself off the ground just enough to remove her right arm from behind her back before she meets the dirt again. She turns her head to the side to look at Martel. “You feel better?”

She does, surprisingly.

“Yeah,” Martel says, meeting Anna’s eyes. They’re a dark, endless brown, which is somewhat strange to see in eyes shaped so much like Lloyd’s. Martel grins. “That was fun.”

Anna’s return grin is sharp. “Maybe next time I’ll win,” she says, and Martel laughs.

She turns her head back up to the sky, night-time tinged pink with sunrise. Derris-Kharlan floats by in front of the stars, but Martel tries to ignore it. She can unpack all that _later._ Desperate for a change of subject, curious to know more, even more, about the woman in the dirt beside her, Martel asks:

“How’d you meet Kratos?”

Anna laughs.

“Put a knife to his throat, actually,” she answers, and it’s fond.

“Really?” Martel asks, surprised.

“Yeah!” Anna doesn’t even sound ashamed. “He showed up in my village, which doesn’t get a lot of strangers, and I wanted to protect my family, so…”

“I can understand that,” Martel laughs, the feeling intensified as Colette flops down on the ground on the other side of her, sending Martel a brief, bright smile when Martel turns to look at her. Colette’s smile is like sunshine, and her presence reassuring.

“I probably would have kicked him out or picked a fight with him,” Anna continues. “But then he told me his name.”

“I guess learning he was the famous war hero would make you reconsider kicking him out, huh?” Colette says, her voice careful and curious, like it always is.

“Mm,” Anna hums in affirmation. Her hand finds Martel’s, fingers tracing the ether line in Martel’s palm. Martel would mind, if she wasn’t used to Lloyd doing this all the time. It must be an Irving thing. “Actually kinda made me wanna kick him in the nuts, at first,” she says.

Martel laughs, loud. Colette says a soft “oh”, which only makes Martel laugh brighter.

Anna chuckles, but she’s clearly distracted.

“I learned to forgive him, though, for giving up on humanity,” she whispers. “I probably would have given up, too, if I’d been put through all he had.” There’s a weight in her voice, in the depth of her words. Martel wonders how much Kratos told her. If Anna knows even half of what Martel does about him, it means Kratos trusted her greatly. Anna inhales, exhales, bitterness shaping the bite of her next words: “Did you know they changed the history, about him?”

“No,” Martel answers.

“They told all of us that he was human, that he’d died hundreds of years before any of us were born,” Anna says, and the thought makes Martel’s ether boil. “They couldn’t stand the thought of their war being ended by anyone other than one of their own, and so they lied. I still think that’s the worst thing they did to him.”

Her fingers press Martel’s hand into the ground, the pressure somewhat uncomfortable. Martel trembles a little, with her anger.

The pressure stops, abruptly. With a grunt from her belly, Anna heaves herself upright. When Martel follows suit, she can see the smile on Anna’s face is forced—and it’s an expression she recognizes so clearly from Lloyd it gives her vertigo for a moment. The fierce decision to put aside something bad for something better.

“Anyway,” Anna says. “I kept him around because I wanted to change his mind, wanted to prove him wrong. It was just me being stubborn. But he stayed. Guess I just impressed him that much.” The teeth of her smile suggest it’s more than that, and that Anna’s well aware of the fact, but… Martel’s content, letting that remain Anna and Kratos’ secret.

She can see it, anyway, she thinks. Anna’s all spitfire and passion, a light in the dark, glowing loudly and brightly, just like her son. Martel can easily see Kratos falling in love with someone like this.

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” Martel says.

Anna smiles back at her.

“Me too.”

 

\- - -

 

“How’d your meeting go?” Kratos asks, the next morning. It’s just the two of them, sitting on her bed, eating complimentary muffins. There’s an eager kind of nervousness in his eyes, and it makes Anna so fond she almost chokes on her food. Kratos Aurion has no right looking _cute_ at her, not _this_ early in the morning.

Anna takes a second, partly to chew, partly to pick out the words to answer the question Kratos is really asking. It’s hard to put her thoughts together, on Martel, all the ways she saw Kratos in her, and vice versa. They share a sense of humor, opinions on humanity. The somewhat rigid way that they sit all the time, shoulders constantly and perfectly straight. Little things. Beautiful things.

“She’s… really something special,” Anna tells Kratos, smiling. “I can see why you love her.”

Kratos shrugs, like it’s nothing. “She is family,” he agrees.

Kratos’ first family. His first blade. The first person he ever trusted, in this lifetime.

Someone really special, indeed.

“Is it hard?” Anna asks. And when Kratos hums, inquisitive, because he didn’t quite follow, she elaborates: “Her being up there—with the network. Not being able to see her.”

Kratos hesitates, going very still, as he picks out his words. He shares that with Martel, too.

“A little,” he admits, after clear hesitation. He rarely lies to Anna, though, rarely withholds things if there is no real reason to. ( _Anna gets the sense, somehow, it was the same with Martel—and maybe, with Mithos and Yuan, too._ ) “But she is still alive, and that alone is a gift. Seeing her sometimes is better than never at all.”

The weight in his tone reminds Anna that he lost Martel once, and then almost lost her twice. She reaches over and squeezes his knee, just to remind him that she’s still alive, too.

Kratos smiles, soft, a little sad.

“I do wish I could share you with her more, though,” he says. “She is alive, but there’s still so much she’s going to miss. And that makes it hard.” He sighs, long and deep. “But we’ll make do.”

Anna nods. “Yeah,” she says.

And then, because this is what she’s best at doing, she leans a little closer to Kratos so she can nudge him playfully.

“Besides, I’m not sure you really want me and her in the same room with you,” she teases. “I think you’d die of embarrassment.”

Kratos ducks his head down, cheeks going red. Anna laughs, bright.

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

Anna just hums in delight, climbing closer to him, hands finding their places on the bed on either side of his hips to brace her weight as she kisses him, grinning.

“Never.”


	9. the way it was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aegises reflect on their father, now that they know the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a direct sequel, but set after the previous chapter. I had this half written only to get stuck on the god reveal, and then Anna did that for me, so I just had to take this and salvage everything else from it. 
> 
> the stuff re: Zelos is rp shenanigans again. the referenced scene specifically happens in a [this thread](https://presidentheartbeat.dreamwidth.org/652.html), but you might wanna read [this one](https://aurions.dreamwidth.org/483.html) first for context (they ARE the same rp shenanigans as last time)

Kratos sits with Mithos and Martel in an endless field of green grass in the dreamspace.

“You… _really_ had no idea?” Kratos asks, slowly, not sure where else to start.

The Aegises both hesitate a second, knowing he refers to the Architect’s true identity, but neither of them exactly sure how to answer. They didn’t, no, not even a guess, but they both know Kratos is asking more than that—he wants to know _how,_ as well, which is something somewhat uncomfortable for the both of them.

“No,” Martel says. “We… we really didn’t know much about him at all.”

And that’s the thing that makes both of them so uncomfortable, in this moment. The two people in the whole world who knew the Architect better than anyone else, and yet, they didn’t really know him at all.

“He never talked about his past,” Mithos adds. “But… we never asked.”

“It never even occurred to me _to_ ask,” Martel says, and her face is pinched with regrets, fingers snapping the piece of grass she was toying with. “I guess we never thought much about it.” She lets the pieces blow away in the dream’s wind, dissatisfied. “It just was, and he just… was.”

“We were happy,” Mithos agrees, with an innocent shrug. Like that’s all there was to it. Kratos understands that he means that happiness was something they didn’t want to—didn’t feel the need to—interrupt. Then Mithos frowns. “Well… Father, he was often… sad. But. I don’t know. I never really thought that was—a problem?”

“No,” Martel agrees, looking troubled. “It just was.”

She sighs. Squeezes Mithos’ knee.

“Sorry,” Kratos mumbles, ducking his head down. He does not have the thoughts fast enough to formulate that he regrets bringing up something that clearly troubles them so much to think about. He doesn’t need the words, though. His Aegises know him very well.

“There’s no need to be sorry, Kratos,” Martel assures him.

“We’re curious, too,” Mithos says. The dreamspace shifts slowly around them, Mithos’—or perhaps Martel’s—memories painting a new image around them. Derris-Kharlan. Kratos doesn’t recognize this section of the city-comet in particular, but maybe it’s somewhere important to the Aegises. “Something like this feels so… big, so obvious, something that we shouldn’t have _not realized,_ and yet… We had no idea.”

“Maybe we should have asked more of our father,” Martel begins, but Mithos shakes his head.

“I don’t think it would have made a difference,” he insists. “Father and Kratos…” He meets Kratos’ face, blue eyes shining. “The two of you really aren’t alike at all.”

Kratos blinks, surprised by the notion. All he’s been able to do since meeting the Architect is put together similarities. The implication that he’s _different…_?

Mithos just nods, smiling bright and clear. “You aren’t! You’ve always been… warmer than he was. More open. Not… _kinder,_ exactly, because Father wasn’t _mean,_ but…”

He trails off, fumbling for words to complete his thought. His sister finds the words for him.

“He was distant,” she says, simply. “Always putting up walls between ourselves and him. But maybe he wanted that.”

There’s a sudden grim clarity in her voice, in her eyes, as she speaks the words. She understands that she is also a reflection of someone else, as is Mithos, reflections of friends—family—the Architect once had. No wonder he would have found it difficult, perhaps uncomfortable, to grow close to them. It explains a lot, but leaves a foul taste in her mouth.

( _Hindsight is the only thing that has made her realize just how strange her years spent with the Architect really were._ )

There is no wind on Derris-Kharlan, but the dream provides it anyway, a short, cold breeze that makes them all shiver in its wake. Martel squeezes her eyes shut, closed knuckles pressed against the glass below her, and Mithos squeezes his hands together. Kratos sits, shoulders hunched, thumb running over the edge of the locket he wears, cannot stop wearing.

“There’s another question you wanted to ask, huh, Kratos?” Mithos says suddenly. Kratos jolts, then scowls a little, frustrated but fond. Mithos has always been so good at reading him.

“Yes,” Kratos admits. “I was wondering…”

He takes a minute to piece together his words, and as he does, the dreamspace shifts around them again. Derris-Kharlan becomes the balcony on Mithos’ tower, Kratos in the spot he’d sat a few nights previously, with Mithos and Martel sitting not far from where Zelos had that same night.

( _Zelos’ frantic laughter, mad grin, inability to modulate his volume as words tumbled and tumbled out of his mouth, recounting the encounter he had with the Architect before he was the Architect, the resonance they’d shared and all the trouble it had brought him._

_Four thousand years’ worth of memories that Martel and Mithos had never seen._

_It doesn’t matter, and yet, it haunts him. Why would the Architect keep that from them, and yet not from Zelos?_ )

“Yes?” Martel prompts, gentle.

Kratos shakes his head, tries to settle his thoughts.

“I know that… that memories aren’t something that _must_ be passed along a resonance link,” he says, as a preface. “But I suppose I just wanted to know if you’d… seen any of his. The Architect’s.”

Martel and Mithos shake their heads in unison.

“He kept a lot back from us,” Mithos admits, slowly, as he scowls.

“Which, knowing his identity, I suppose makes sense,” Martel sighs.

Mithos nods, though he continues scowling.

“Isn’t it hard to keep that much back?” Kratos presses. Zelos doesn’t care but _he_ cares, because four _thousand_ years is a lot to dump on anyone, and— “Even if you never saw his memories, wouldn’t at least the _weight_ of them leak through?”

“In theory,” Mithos says. His expression grows thoughtful. “But I suppose since Father _created_ resonance, he would have known exactly how to control every inch of it. It actually made it kind of… overwhelming. The first time I was in resonance with someone else.” Mithos’ eyes go distant. Troubled. “I felt… so much.”

The dream space ripples. Settles before the images that pervade Mithos’ troubled thoughts completely take over the scene Kratos accidentally painted, as Mithos takes memories he doesn’t want to touch and pushes them away again. He shakes his head, blinking.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Kratos assures him.

“He always felt like he was missing something,” Martel says, suddenly, her voice a quiet, stolen whisper. Her eyes are directed towards Kratos, but they are unseeing. “Like he’d… left something incredibly important behind.”

Kratos laughs before he can stop himself, broken and empty. He doesn’t even know for certain who or what it was, but he can imagine, he can guess.

( _Was it Lloyd? Was it Anna? Were they both long dead before he left?_ )

“Do you know, Kratos?” Martel asks.

Kratos shakes his head, clutches the locket. That yellowed image of the Architect and his Anna and their Lloyd burns against his retina. But. It is only a guess.

“Not for certain,” he says. “And I think I don’t want to know, for certain.”

( _The fact that Zelos probably does know_ exactly _what the Architect left behind doesn’t evade Kratos, and his stomach immediately fills with dread and anger on Zelos’ behalf, because Zelos shouldn’t_ have _to know something as heavy as that._ )

Martel hums and she nods, understanding. “Knowing the truth about Father gave us more questions than answers, I think,” she whispers, fingers trailing over the stone below her. “Questions that I’m not sure I want the answers to, either.”

“Me neither,” Mithos agrees. “But I’m happier this way.” At the inquisitive look he gets from his siblings, he explains: “If- if we’d _known_ the truth about him from the beginning, then when we met Kratos, we would have only seen him as a reflection of Father. And then, I think, we wouldn’t have really gotten to know _him._ Don’t get me wrong, I love Father, but—” He crosses the distance between himself and Kratos, plopping against Kratos’ side, and grins up at his brother. “Kratos is my favorite,” he declares.

Fondness bursts in Kratos’ chest, because even though he is hundreds of years old, often Mithos is still so much like a child. He tries to find something to say, but all he can do is blush, winded by the declaration.

Martel laughs, and joins them on Kratos’ other side, wrapping them both in a tight hug.

“Kratos is my favorite, too,” Martel agrees.


	10. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Architect meets the source of his power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up we xenogears now ([mood music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dKpeTEBYIA))

A blinding green light envelops him. Its cradle is gentle, if cold. The angel opens his eyes. He sees nothing but white, save for a pulsing of green—it’s too bright to look at directly, but it _pulls_ at him, singing in harmony with the mana in his veins.

The source itself… he isn’t sure what to call it, what it’s made of, he just knows it’s some almost unfathomable power. He’s tasted something close to it before— _Eternal Sword held in his brother’s hands, Origin smiling approvingly—_ but this seems deeper, and it’s Here, it’s Now, it envelops him completely.

“What…?” he whispers, confused.

A voice echoes around him, inside him.

_You are a long way from home, aren’t you?_

Their tone is gentle. Their tone is sad.

The angel shudders. He thinks of—the years, so many of them, that he has spent listlessly traversing space. All the other angels have left him, found a place elsewhere. It’s just him, and a horde of lost souls that he is not sure what he’s going to do with. They remain in storage, in Derris-Kharlan, for now, because any other fate seems too cruel. There is no one to use them here, anyway.

Just him.

Him, and his regrets.

Oh, how he wishes he could fix them.

_This world is new, and boundless._

_You can do with it as you wish._

The angel recoils at the thought.

“And what? Become some sort of god?” he scoffs. It doesn’t appeal to him at all. ( _He thinks of his brother, splitting the world in two. He thinks of how he helped._

 _Never again._ )

There is a hum, in the air around him, resonating in his bones.

_It is… strange._

_I have not yet encountered a being capable of crossing dimensions without help._

_You are the first._

He scowls, at that, uncertainty bubbling in his chest. What does this being mean? Did Derris-Kharlan shift dimensions without him noticing? Or…?

_Why are you here?_

_Where are you going?_

The angel exhales, long and slow, regret on his shoulders like mountains. He could lie. But what is the point, now? It is just him, and this source, a power that seems capable of reading his very heart. What would he gain, from lying to them?

So he tells them the truth.

“My path is… aimless,” he says. “I do not have a destination in mind.”

_But you have something you’d like to accomplish._

“That is true.”

_I could help you._

Trepidation strikes in his heart.

The angel squints as well as he can at the source, not sure what he thinks of them, or their offer. They seem… insistent.

This power is the last thing he wants.

_What is it you wish?_

Truthfully…?

“I want to go home.”

_You cannot._

_Not anymore._

Of course.

He wouldn’t deserve that, anyway. To turn back time, to rebuild bridges he burned, to return to the son he left—

The son who is almost, certainly, dead by now.

His hand reaches up to touch the weight of metal against his chest, the locket he kept, these thousands of years. It brings him more pain than it does comfort, looking at it only reminding him of what he lost, of what he chose to forsake, to abandon.

Why would someone like him deserve to return home?

_But maybe I can help you go somewhere else._

He pauses.

Thinks of Derris-Kharlan, aimless, empty, ever-roaming.

It is just him, on the comet.

“Where is there to go?”

_I told you before. This world is new, and boundless._

_And you—you have something you’d like to see accomplished._

_Things you would like to atone for._

He cannot atone if he cannot return.

Except.

He thinks, again, of the thousands of lost souls he is guarding, the thousands of lives taken by the exspheres. He wonders if there is a way to save them. A way to provide them… a second chance. A new life.

If he could give that to them… would that be enough?

It would certainly be better to try, than to let them sit around and collect dust.

_Now, creator._

_What is your wish?_

He…

He shouldn’t, but…

The god makes a wish.


	11. you're trembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kranna for a writing prompt. Kratos has a bad night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [from this list of prompts](http://rarmaster.tumblr.com/post/184295444880/50-dialogue-prompts)

“Kratos?”

It’s heard as if through water. Kratos blinks a few times. Tries to anchor himself to the world he’s standing on, but everything is like static in his bones, distant memories kept firmly at bay and with them everything else. It will all pass. All he has to do is ride it out.

“Kratos…? Hey.”

That voice, again. A little sharp. Not Mithos’. Why is it not Mithos’? Mithos is the only one who’d…

Blink. Reassess. A perpetually dusty town spread before him, browns illuminated under warm sunlight. Not the tower. Why is he not in the tower? Blink again. Sitting on wood, boots pressed against the dirt. He recognizes this place, he thinks, so that’s a comfort.

Someone’s speaking to him. Not Mithos. He _does_ recognize the voice, though.

“I’m… fine,” he gets out, through the static.

“You sure?” that voice again, gentle, tilted like the owner doesn’t believe him. A figure comes into view, bending down in front of him. Blink. He recognizes that face.

Anna.

Oh.

He remembers where he is, now. Her little village. He spent the night here.

( _It… wasn’t a very good night, but that wasn’t her fault. Some nights are just worse than others._ )

“You’re trembling,” Anna says, and it’s with a soft kind of surprise, like she’d only just realized it.

Kratos blinks. Looks at his hands. “Am I?”

Honestly, he can’t tell.

_(He tries do push down the sickness in his throat and the thing like slime in his veins, even though he can really never escape the intrusive flow of blood that isn’t his, the constant beating of a heart that doesn’t belong to him either. They both seem so much louder, today. But after a night of nightmares and wrists bound and jabbing needles and—_

_Push it away. Don’t think about the soreness of your skin or the little pinpricks of phantom pain. It’s all in the past, now._ )

Anna squints at him, readjusts so she’s squatting in front of him instead of just bent over, which puts her below his eye level, forces her to look up at him. He barely even follows her movement with his eyes. He’s sitting on the porch of one of her houses ( _not that they are all hers, but it is easier to just think of the village as a whole as such. Anna’s._ ) because… well he’s not sure, exactly. He doesn’t remember sitting down.

“Are you…?” Anna begins, but clearly isn’t sure how to phrase the question.

Kratos doesn’t answer right away. Isn’t sure how to. She doesn’t know… he hasn’t told her… Not in detail, anyway. Not what the humans put him through. Not why he is the way he is.

As far as people currently alive on this planet go, there’s only one other person who knows the depths of it, actually.

Still.

“Bad night,” he answers, before he really thinks about it. That’s usually all he has to say for Mithos to understand. Or for Presea to understand, as well, even if she doesn’t know the full of the truth, the horrors he has lived through.

Anna’s eyes narrow, but she nods slowly. Looks like she understands, too.

( _At least three others that Kratos has met in this village are like him, so maybe that’s no surprise._ )

“Is there… What do you… _normally_ do, when…?” Anna asks, still fumbling for the right words. “Is there something specific? You need anything?”

Mithos’ presence is usually enough to get him out of the worst of the haze, but Mithos isn’t here, and by the time anyone goes to get him and returns—( _as if Kratos would actually send anyone on that journey_ )—it will have passed. It always passes. In a few hours. Never longer than a day.

“It will pass,” Kratos answers. “It always does. I will be fine until then, if a little unresponsive.”

Anna doesn’t look exactly comforted by that notion, which Kratos distantly registers as strange. She doesn’t argue though.

“Do you want…” she says, after a moment. Then she stops.

Kratos watches her, vaguely interested. She spends a while trying to pick out what to say, which is unlike her, for at least as far as Kratos knows her. She’s rarely quiet, and even when she doesn’t have the full of what she wants to say worked out, she barrels right into the conversation with the words she does have and seems to hope the rest will come to her on the way. It’s strange. Almost refreshing, sometimes, to hear so many thoughts Kratos himself would keep quiet laid bare.

He kind of likes that about her. Not as much as he likes the fact she hasn’t moved an inch closer to him, though.

“Coffee,” she says, finally.

“What?”

Anna chuckles, just a bit. “Do you want coffee?” she asks.

Kratos blinks.

Actually…

“That would be nice,” he says.


	12. stirs of memories, whisper, linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna has a nightmare about one of her past lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this concept has been haunting me for a while
> 
> "what's the nightmare?" Oh You Know :)

Anna jolts awake suddenly, which wakes Malos just as efficiently as the spike of horror-terror-frustration that slips through their emotional bleed. The fact that they’d fallen asleep right next to each other last night also definitely helps.

“Son of a fucking dick,” Anna swears, swinging her legs off the side of the bed. She doesn’t move after that, just sits there, head in her hands.

Malos pushes himself upright, squinting at her in the dim light his core crystal casts in the otherwise dark room. It’s hard to see more than her outline, but the emotion bleed conveys her despair-anger well enough, so Malos really doesn’t even need more than one guess to figure out what’s up.

“You good?” he asks, tentatively.

“That dream again,” she answers.

“Which one?”

“The bad one.”

Malos sighs, a little, wishing not for the first time that they didn’t lead lives where _the bad one_ actually wasn’t specific enough. Out of all the recurring dreams Anna talks about having, Malos would consider all of them kind of universally bad.

But… he can think of one that she probably hates more than the other ones.

“The one where Lloyd is dead and Kratos can’t remember you?” he guesses.

“Yeah, that one, thanks,” she bites back. If she had more energy Malos is quite certain that would have earned him a glare, if not a slug in the shoulder.

“Sorry, guess that was pretty tactless,” he laughs, scratching at his head. Anna doesn’t answer. She just sits there, head in her hands, shoulders tight. Malos figures that if she was going to do or say anything, she would have already. She’s probably caught up in—who knows, fighting back the images from the nightmare? The lingering sickness? Letting her thoughts chase themselves in circles around in her head?

Sighing softly, he reaches out and tugs her towards him, ‘til he’s pressing her ear up against his chest and holding her tight.

“Just… breathe,” he tells her, gently. “It was just a bad dream.”

“Doesn’t change the fact I feel like shit,” Anna laughs, all bitter and sharp edges. “Stupidest fucking dream on the planet, _Architect,_ it’s always so vivid and so. _Weirdly specific._ What a dumb fucking fear.”

Malos hums, rubbing at her back. “…it ever occur to you that maybe you keep having these nightmares ‘cuz you’re worried about them?” he says, somewhat conversationally, unsure how else to approach the topic.

“Distinctly remember having this dream long before Lloyd was ever even born,” Anna shoots back. Malos bites his tongue. She’s always a right state after these dreams. At least she’s relaxing _physically,_ tension melting out of her shoulders, even if the knot of her emotion in the back of Malos’ mind is tight as hell.

“Still,” Malos says. “Maybe we should… we could always…”

 _Check on them,_ because Malos knows if anything makes him feel better after one of his recurring nightmares shows up it’s making sure his family is all accounted for and didn’t die on him while he wasn’t looking, even if his shield had failed for real like it always tends to in the nightmares _he_ wouldn’t be alive to even check on his family, but—

“Out of the question,” Anna interjects, words like a razor. “It’s not safe to get anywhere near Mithos, anymore, and I doubt Kratos is anywhere but with him.”

“That’s fair,” Malos admits, though with some disappointment. The rumors about Mithos’ tower have gotten _pretty_ nasty, though, and even if Anna is Anna and Kratos is Kratos, Anna doesn’t trust Mithos an inch and her resolute terror as far as even trying to get close is hard for Malos to really shake, so he doesn’t press that one. “ _Lloyd_ , though—”

“He’s safer,” Anna counters, on cue.

“Is he, though?”

“If he’s away from me, he’s safe.”

Malos wants to fidget, mouth curling in distaste. He understands that—the life they lead? Not exactly safe for a kid. Things have started to calm down, but once they go through with their plans to start putting an end to this war, they won’t be calm again, and as a high-profile and incredibly-dangerous political figure (and, what else is a rebel, really?), anyone connected to Anna immediately becomes a target for leverage. Can they do that to Lloyd?

Is not painting a target on his back really worth trading away the chance to even watch him grow up?

Do they _really_ not trust themselves to keep him safe with their own hands?

“Come on, that doesn’t make any sense,” Malos argues, gently.

When Anna responds, it’s like—she’s a different woman. Not his daughter. “Of course it makes sense. Every child I’ve ever had—something horrible always happens to them.” Her voice is heavy with the weight of more than just the thirty years she’s lived. “I’m beginning to think I’m the problem.”

That.

Hm.

“Anna?” Malos says.

“What?” she asks, and she still sounds not-her, the bitterness too deep and her voice too tired.

“You… You’ve only got the one kid.”

Anna goes rigid in his arms again, hands clenched into fists against his chest like she’s trying to hold onto something that’s rapidly slipping away from her. He gets a taste of her anger and confusion before quite suddenly he’s not getting any emotions from her at all. He starts to call her out on that, but she yanks herself out of his arms and climbs out of bed.

Back to him, feet on the floor, she pauses just long enough to say:

“I’m going for a walk.”

It’s pretty clear she doesn’t want him to follow, so Malos doesn’t.


	13. do not speak ill of the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nia has a question for Kratos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you go to take out the trash, black out, and come to with 500 words on a page. so uh. quietly chips further into the horrible lore that is "whosmt the fuck was Kratos' driver, anyway"

Kratos regains consciousness finally, somewhat blearily. That hit he took was pretty bad. He’s surprised he’s alright, actually. His healing capabilities aren’t what they used to be.

“’Ello,” comes Nia’s voice, somewhat chipper, marred by the edge that usually is in her words. “I was just wonderin’ when you’d come round—Ey! _Don’t_ sit up!”

Kratos stops moving.

Nia shakes her head, exasperated, her cat ears flicking in her annoyance. “Honestly, it wasn’t exactly easy getting you back up to top shape,” she spits, scowling at him. “And some people just want to go around and _waste_ all that work by immediately butchering it—”

“Forgive me,” Kratos tells her, somewhat amused. It seems most of Anna’s companions prefer complaining just for the chance to run their mouth, and Nia is no different. “If I shouldn’t move yet—"

“You shouldn’t.”

“—Then I will not.”

Nia’s scowl softens after a moment. Kratos wonders if she’s even used to her patients listening to her. Likely not, if she’s mostly spending her time healing Anna and Malos.

But her soft expression darkens with… concern, perhaps? Discomfort? She sits down at the end of Kratos’ cot, not looking at him.

“Can I ask you something, Kratos?” she says.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Alright.” Nia nods to herself. “Just. Y’do know that’s a _child’s_ heart in you, right?”

Oh. Now he’s seeing her hesitance.

“…I am aware,” Kratos says, carefully. At least, he had a few guesses. ( _Even if he never saw his driver, something as simple as whether or not you have resonated with a child is easy enough to tell, even if the resonance had lasted only five minutes._ )

Nia’s mouth curls in… disgust, he thinks, ears laid back against her head.

“That’s… I s’pose it’s none of my business,” she sighs, before she looks up at him, eyes burning. “But _please_ tell me you didn’t—”

“I had no say in the matter,” Kratos interjects, to ease her worries.

Nia lets out a breath of relief.

“I was awake all of five minutes before they started surgery,” Kratos continues, which is maybe more than Nia needs to know, but he’ll be damned if he lets anyone assume he did this willingly, and at the cost of a child’s life. “There was nothing I could do to stop them.”

“ _Architect,_ who would do that to a blade? To a _child_!?” Nia demands, anger flashing across her face.

“Someone very interested in his scientific research,” Kratos answers, somewhat empty.

Nia’s anger flashes brighter. “That’s _sick,_ ” she hisses. “That’s—” She cuts off. Looks Kratos up and down, expression slowly softening. ( _It occurs to him, if she healed him, that means she’s seen his scars. Not all of them are from Kvar, of course. Plenty are from the war. But, still._ ) “Anyway,” Nia says, sharply, hopping to her feet. “Sorry I asked. You don’t need me in here digging up bad memories.”

Kratos shakes his head. “No need to apologize,” he assures her. “I’d rather you know the truth than assume the worst of me. Thank you for healing me.”

“Well, that’s my job, isn’t it?” Nia shoots back, but she’s smiling. “I’ll go get your wife. _Don’t. Move._ ”


	14. tick, tock, stubborn clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colette, Lloyd, and adventures in touch starvation and other ways abuse leaves you fucked up that Colette is NOT unpacking right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: this chapter contains references of past (emotional) abuse, and its lingering effects
> 
> the longer i spent thinking about Colette's psyche, the more and more i realized how fractured it really is, though ywkon itself was just too busy to show us. this is the first of a handful of oneshots remedying the situtaion
> 
> title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKkzsLgBWno)
> 
> update: i added the final portion of this oneshot to ywkon itself because i felt like ywkon needed it, but it was initially written for this oneshot, so here it stays

Colette, it turns out, likes it when Lloyd holds her hand. He does it innocuously first, not really thinking about it, but the emotion bleed from her is so _happy_ that he finds every excuse to do it from then on. He holds her hand under the table, while they're walking, when they're just chilling and he doesn't actually need both of them.

She never initiates the contact. She waits until he does.

And the emotion bleed, after a while… It's still _happy,_ but it's… somehow desperate, as well. She holds him a little too tightly and she doesn't explain and he doesn't ask. ( _Though this is still before she's told him she's the Aegis, this is when he has no reason to assume she has any memories from before he woke her, this is before he knows the dual-color of her core crystal is a scar, and that there are many more scars on her soul that will never show upon her skin.)_ He just squeezes her hand back and tells her: "It's alright, you know. You can hold my hand whenever. I don't mind."

( _The first time she reaches for him instead of the other way around, he's overjoyed._ )

It doesn't take long for Lloyd to pick up on the fact it's more than just hand holding that makes Colette happy. So long as he's touching her, quiet joy sings along their resonance link. He makes a point of cuddling with her on the couch from then on, to touch her shoulder when he passes. She always leans into the touch. _Always._ And- it makes her happy, so Lloyd keeps doing it.

 

 

They're curled up on his bed one night, Colette saying nothing, content in just resting against Lloyd, head on his shoulder. He's kind of reading a book, but the hand he isn't using to hold it open is wrapped around Colette's wrist, thumb running up and down where the ether line on her arm connects to the circle on her palm. The action has become soothing for him, and she likes it, and he likes the sharp sensation of ether under his fingertips, the slight divot in her skin. He's thinking more about ether lines than the book until finally.

"Hey, Colette?"

"Yes, Lloyd?"

"This is dumb, but like. The ether lines are all over your body, right? Not just on your hands."

Faint confusion passes along the emotion bleed. "Yes," Colette says, her tone carefully neutral. He can still hear the question in the emotion bleed, though, so he keeps going.

"Can I see?" he asks.

"Um," Colette says, and Lloyd realizes the problem with this request. He blushes.

"I mean, never mind," he says, quickly. "I. I guess you'd have to undress for that, huh. That's. You don't have to do that. I dunno what I was thinking."

Colette thinks about it for a moment while Lloyd sits there, too mortified to really go back to his book but making a valiant attempt, anyway. Finally Colette sits up. "Actually," she says, and before Lloyd can protest she's pulling off—oh. Her coat. She's wearing a shirt under it, a tank top much like Lloyd wears under his coat, except Colette's is white, and just thin enough that he can see the soft pink glow of her ether lines through it.

Lloyd's embarrassment is quickly drowned by awe, because, what the hell, blades are _beautiful?_ There's a line of pink that moves down from her core crystal to meet an open circle on her stomach much like the ones on her hands. Those on the back of her hands and her palms follow up the underside and topside of her arms, connecting to open circles on her shoulder. Lloyd twists to see her back, too curious to be embarrassed anymore. The circles on her shoulders are connected by a line that goes across her shoulder blades, and each shoulder's circle has a line connecting it to an open circle on the small of her back, forming something kind of like a triangle.

"Whoa…" Lloyd breathes, running one hand slowly up the ether lines on her arm until his fingers are tracing the circle on her shoulder. She leans into the touch, like always, joy and _wanting_ bleeding along the resonance connecting them, and that's kind of new—or at least, Lloyd's never felt it this strongly before—but he's too caught up in his awe and curiosity to really notice.

"Whoa?" Colette repeats, a question.

"Yeah!! I mean, I dunno, I think ether lines are cool," Lloyd says, and Colette likes it when he touches her so he traces his fingers down the ether lines on her arm again, mystified by the sensation. "Blades are really lucky. Architect made you guys beautiful."

"...beautiful?"

Colette's voice is small, as Lloyd traces the circle of ether on her shoulder again. He frowns, a little, trying to parse her tone and the emotion bleed. It's gotten tight, almost incomprehensible. He guesses maybe she's never been called that before? She is only a few weeks old, technically. Blades are weird.

"Yeah, you are," Lloyd insists, blushing again but it's not _untrue_. He traces the lines down her back, fixated. Something happens when his hand finds the small of her back. The incomprehensible emotion bleed gets overwhelming, and Something hitches in Colette's chest—

Oh.

Oh, Architect. She's _crying._

"Hey, hey," Lloyd says, pulling his hands away. "Did I hurt you?" She shakes her head, hand pressed to her eyes. "Was it something I said? Or- or was it—"

"I don't know," Colette interrupts, still shaking her head, trembling where she sits. "I don't know. I…"

Lloyd thinks if she was upset he would know, but amidst the overwhelming emotion bleed all she really feels is lost, and so…

Lloyd hugs her. He gently pulls her into his arms, and he hugs her.

She sobs into his shoulder and he pets her hair and shushes her gently. "It's alright," he whispers. "It's okay. You don't have to explain. I've got you."

She clings to him, and she cries.

( _The thing is, she does know what's wrong, but she doesn't know how to say it. She hasn't told him she remembers her past before this. She hasn't even told him she's Sylvarant's lost Aegis. And even if she had told him—how would she explain? How would she tell him that this is the kindest touch she has ever received, that these are kindest words she has ever heard, and that's so much too much she doesn't know what to do with it all but she's selfish, and she_

_doesn't_

_want_

_to_

_let_

_go.)_

 

 

They fall asleep curled up in his bed like that, Colette held tightly in Lloyd's arms.

The next morning Sylvarant's military comes knocking at their door.

 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lloyd asks.

They’re huddled together in a cave in the hills behind Iselia, waiting for the Sylvaranti troops to pass, waiting until it’s safe to—run. Somewhere. Lloyd isn’t sure where, but he knows at least that he will _not_ let them take Colette. The emotion bleed has been nothing but fear and uneasiness from her since she saw Sylvarant’s Special Inquisitor, which means this is bad news, so. He’ll do what he can, to keep her safe. He’ll do everything he can.

“Well…” Colette begins, in answer to his question. She looks a little guilty, running her fingers over her core crystal. She’s pressed into his side, Lloyd gripping her wrist, a familiar position, now. ( _But really, they both need the comfort of it._ ) “It was kind of nice, you know?” she says. “Just being… Colette.”

“Oh.”

Lloyd becomes distinctly certain that with those few sentences he learned more about her than he ever knew before.

They sit in silence, for a moment, Lloyd processing, Colette trying to calm down. Lloyd shifts so he’s holding her wrist with his opposite hand, wrapping the other around her shoulders to hold her tight.

“It’s… I could just go back, you know,” Colette whispers, head down. “Maybe I should. I mean- I can’t. I can’t really ask you to. To…”

She doesn’t finish, but if she thinks she’s going to talk him out of this, she can think again. Lloyd tightens his grip on her.

“I’m not going to let them hurt you, Colette,” he insists.

“They never hurt me.”

She says it so certainly he doesn’t think she’s lying. Or at least, _she_ doesn’t think she’s lying. But… people can hurt you in a lot of ways, and a lot of those ways aren’t physical.

( _He thinks of how starved she is for his touch. The way she cries when something nice happens to her. How she never does anything unless he says it’s okay._ )

“Colette…” he begins, though he’s not sure what he’s going to say.

“You can hand me over to them, really,” she whispers. “It’s- it’s alright. They’ll never leave you alone, if you’re with me, and I don’t want them hurting _you_ —”

“I’m not letting them take you,” Lloyd says, with all the conviction he can muster. She hasn’t spoken about her past, and he’s not sure she ever will, but he doesn’t need her to. He hears about the Aegises enough, and the war, and the cannons. He knows all the military wants her for is to _use_ her. And he knows they hurt her. Somehow. He knows that she hates it with them. He knows that she’s _scared_. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.

“…why?” Colette mumbles, like she doesn’t understand.

Lloyd thinks it over for a moment. Kisses the top of her head in the meantime.

“Because… you deserve to be Just Colette, if you want to be,” he tells her.

It’s a while before she stops crying.


	15. all that you've longed for is painted on my arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, of course, Lloyd _does_ have two hands. But, really, that's not the problem Colette is finding with the situation. Her fears are much deeper, much older, and much harder to banish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: Colette has some Serious Issues re: her own image of self-worth, and spends a lot of this fic spiralling through intrusive thoughts on the matter, and her past of (emotional) abuse is brought up, though not at length
> 
> anyway after 10 months I've given in, admitted that Lloyd Has Two Hands, and if the aegises are gonna love him _this_ loudly I might as well let them, so here's some colloyd to match all the zelloyd. also, no, I don't know how this got to be 9k, either.
> 
> chapter title taken from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqi5lL1wVcw), which funnily enough I used to title a zelloyd oneshot previously, even though the song itself is actually more colloyd. WHO KNEW
> 
> also clarification just for clarification's sake: though Colette and Zelos are both dating Lloyd now, they have no romantic interest in each other and never will
> 
> \- - -

When Martel thinks of home, she thinks of dark, starry skies, and cities of glass.

When Colette thinks of home, she thinks of Lloyd.

She thinks of his hand wrapped around her wrist, her head tucked into his shoulder. She thinks of the warm cradle of their resonance, how it’s been more comforting than any resonance she’s held in her entire life.

 _That’s_ home. _He’s_ home.

 

\- - -

 

Colette really didn’t catch the _why_ this was happening, but she sits and watches Lloyd and Sheena, both of them barefoot in the river with pants rolled up around their knees, both desperately trying to catch fish with their bare hands. Someone’s had to have told them already this is horribly inefficient, but the way Seles is cheerfully egging them on and also keeping score makes Colette think this is less about efficiency and more about who’s winning, and they’re having fun so who’s Colette to tell them to stop?

“Got one!” Lloyd shouts, his excitement bleeding through their resonance link and filling Colette up.

“Holy _shit,_ Lloyd,” Sheena says, and no wonder, because that fish is _huge,_ and Lloyd laughs, struggling to keep it from slipping right out of his arms while also trying to navigate over to the bucket they have placed on the riverbed. He gets about three steps before the fish squirms enough to break free, smacking him in the face with its tail before plopping back into the river.

This startles Lloyd enough he reels backwards and falls on his butt, and concern grips at Colette’s chest, but then Lloyd _laughs,_ loud and bright and cackling until he snorts. It’s such a _cute_ sound, and it fills Colette with fondness, fondness unlike any she has felt, ever before, not for any driver…

There’s something kind of sweet and overwhelming about that fondness she feels for Lloyd, something a little familiar, something that makes Colette habitually search the area for Zelos, but Zelos isn’t here, and…

From the back of her mind, Martel laughs.

‘ _Colette, hun, I think that’s from you,’_ Martel says.

Colette’s cheeks turn kind of warm. She fumbles, trying to dissect what Martel is implying, even though she doesn’t really need to do much, because Martel’s unsaid but still heard thoughts make it _very_ clear. Colette blushes a little harder, grateful she’s sitting so far away from this nonsense, grateful that Lloyd’s too busy trying to stand back up and Sheena and Seles are too busy laughing at him to pay her any attention.

‘ _I think you’re in love,’_ Martel accuses, simply.

Colette scowls.

 _I mean, of course I love Lloyd,_ she says, slowly, understanding what Martel is saying but still not really understanding it. It’s not like she’s been in love before. It’s not like there’s been anyone to love. _He’s so nice to me, and he’s_ good, _and he’s gone so far to protect me when he didn’t have to, and he… he… you know._

He’s her salvation, her freedom, her home.

Of course she loves him.

It’s hard to tell if Martel is sad or exasperated, or maybe both. What’s easy to tell is the persistent smugness that wraps around her words as she continues:

‘ _Yeah, but like… I think you’re_ really _in love, Colette.’_

It’s as teasing as it is certain. Colette scowls a little harder, fingers clenching into fists against her folded legs.

 _Zelos already loves him,_ she argues. _Even if he won’t admit it, yet, we both know he does._

 _‘Yes, and?’_ Martel says, like she doesn’t see the problem. ‘ _That doesn’t mean you can’t love Lloyd, too. That doesn’t mean Lloyd can’t love the both of you. He already does.’_

_But not like that._

_‘You won’t know unless you ask him.’_

Something cold grips Colette’s core, and though she stares at the trees and the river and three of her friends laughing in its waters, she doesn’t hear them, she doesn’t see them. She sees a too-perfect room and smiles that never make it all the way to the eyes of those giving them. She feels stale, filtered air instead of the warm breeze. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be loved, like that. She doesn’t know if she even _wants_ to be loved, like that. She barely knows how to be loved and love in return to begin with, barely knows what it’s like to have someone actually be _nice_ to her, to actually _care_ about her well-being, and Lloyd’s done all this for her but maybe what she wants is too much to put on his shoulders in return, maybe she should just be happy with what she has, she _is_ happy with what she has, happy that someone could love her at all, because—

_(she’s just a spare, a faulty replacement, worthless, not what anyone wants no matter how hard she tries but what they want from her is the only thing she has no control over, and being Good and doing As Told isn’t enough to please them, of course it isn’t, because she isn’t good enough, she'll never be good enough, she’s just in the way and she's dead weight so why would Lloyd—)_

‘ _Colette,_ ’ Martel says, sharp, pulling her out of her reverie. Damn it. Normally she hides all that better, normally she doesn’t drag it up where Martel can see, normally she’s _good_ and she _doesn’t cause trouble,_ she’s fine, it’s fine, Martel _doesn’t need to worry about her._

She grabs her end of the emotional bleed and holds it tight, not wanting to worry Lloyd. If he calls for her she can’t hear it, already on her feet, already walking away.

‘ _Colette, Lloyd doesn’t think about you like that at all,’_ Martel begins.

 _It’s just weird with you here,_ Colette interjects, sharp and purposefully digging right in to where it’s going to hurt Martel, because she wants Martel to shut up. _It doesn’t matter if I have a crush on Sheena or Lloyd or anyone else, because, I can’t-_ We _can’t. Not like this._

The overwhelming guilt that becomes Colette’s only awareness of Martel wasn’t really worth it, but whatever. She got what she wanted.

 

\- - -

 

She spends time with Sheena, after Martel is gone, like she and Sheena promised they would. Sheena’s still cute, of course, and Colette still likes the way Sheena pretends to cough when she’s flustered because she thinks it’ll hide her blush, likes Sheena’s laugh and how badly she holds herself together around Colette, but… nothing really pans out between them.

It’s as simple as this.

Seles wants to go traveling, and Sheena elects to go with her. She asks if Colette wants to come, but leaving _home_ is not something that’s exactly easy to do, so Colette says no, and stays with her driver and her brother. It’s months before she sees Sheena again.

She wonders if it would have been different, had she gone on that trip.

She wonders if it would have been the same.

 

\- - -

 

The tension between Lloyd and Zelos gets kind of unbearable, especially after the desperate welcome-home kiss that Colette thought sure would be the end of their nonsense until they _don’t talk about it for days._ Finally, she decides she’s had enough. She locks them in a closet together.

After that the emotion bleed is crystal clear and free of tension, at least from the two of them. She doesn’t have to watch Zelos nearly combust from trying to hold himself together, doesn’t have to feel Lloyd’s tight _want-to-but-don’t-know-if-I-should,_ because neither of them are trying to hide it, anymore, it’s all out in the open, and it’s nice that they can just be _honest_ about their feelings. For a while everything is at peace, floaty and good.

And nothing… _changes,_ exactly, in their relationship with Colette. Zelos is still her brother. Lloyd still holds her hand at every opportunity he gets. The three of them sleep in the same bed, every night, Lloyd often in the middle. They both love her. She knows that.

But.

It’s like there’s a piece of the puzzle that’s missing. Or maybe a handful of pieces. You still have enough of them to know what the full picture is supposed to look like, but the dog— _of course it’s a puzzle of a dog, why would it be anything else—_ is missing a part of its ear, maybe. It can live without that, but it still looks a little sad. And you don’t even have the piece that shows you the butterflies in the background, so you don’t know they’re there at all, and you don’t know that the sun is peeking out behind the clouds because you don’t have that piece, either, and…

Colette doesn’t know. She’s _happy,_ like this, and she’s happy _for them,_ but.

It’s still…

She doesn’t know.

She really doesn’t know.

 

\- - -

 

Colette might not have a _place_ she calls home ( _home, she finds, is in a person_ ), but she paints the dreamspace with the same image every night Martel comes to visit, liking the comfort the familiarity of it brings. Grassy hills in a green field, the sky pink on one horizon, stars not yet fading on the other. Today there’s a few trees, all white with blossoming flowers, and Colette sits under one, waiting.

Martel is not there one second, and there the next.

She grins wide and fond at Colette, and settles down in the grass next to the Aegis she thinks of like a little sister, knowing Colette likes to lean against her. Colette’s been doing this long enough that at least with Martel and Lloyd and Zelos she’s forgotten to be _embarrassed_ that she’s so desperate for the contact, for the touch of someone kind, of someone who wants her. She flops into Martel’s side as easy as breathing, face pressed up against Martel’s arm, just below Martel’s shoulder.

“Good news,” Colette says, first thing. “Lloyd and Zelos finally admitted they have feelings for each other and started dating, so that nonsense is over with.”

Martel laughs, fond. “Really? I thought certain it was going to take months more.”

“Nope,” Colette says. Then she giggles. “Though… I _might_ have locked them in a closet to expedite the issue.”

Martel’s laughter is a lot louder, this time, brimming with love and warmth.

From there Martel gossips about what she thinks is going on between Genis and Mithos, and asks Colette how Kratos is doing, and Anna. Colette answers those questions, shares stories, talks about Zelos and Lloyd and asks after Mithos outside of the Genis situation. It’s nice to hear Martel’s voice again, nice to hear her laugh and spend time with her.

Lloyd is home, but Martel is like a second-home.

After all, Lloyd might have been the first person to love her, but Martel wasn’t really far behind.

( _And you don’t just_ forget, _sharing a body and every inch of your mind with someone like that. That fondness, that taste of closeness… It never really goes away, and neither do the bonds forged through it._ )

“What about you and Lloyd?” Martel asks, after a while.

Colette forgets how to breathe, for a second.

“Wh- what do you mean?”

Martel sends her a knowing look, eyes glinting. “You know. Did you ever get to talk to him about _your_ feelings?”

Colette is grateful there’s not an emotion bleed she has to watch out for, here.

“I- I have no idea what you’re—”

“Colette,” Martel interrupts, fond. “You really think you can pull that on _me?_ I shared a headspace with you for six months. Emotion bleed or no, I can still read you like an open book.”

Colette scowls. It’s not fair. The dreamspace shifts, a little, trying to erase the field Colette has painted and replace it with Lloyd’s room, at Dirk’s house, warm and brown and tasting almost like home because it tastes like Lloyd. She catches the dreamspace before it can finish, forcing the field to stay as is, though the sunrise is more red than pink, now. She scowls at that, too.

“I don’t,” Colette begins, finding Martel’s hand and squeezing it. “I just.” She can’t find the words, though. She’s not sure if words exist.

“That’s a no, then,” Martel says.

Colette sighs. “Why would I need to talk to him? Everything’s fine.”

“Hmm.” Martel hums, reaching over with her free hand and brushing Colette’s hair out of her face, Colette leans into the touch, following the caress and longing for it, even though no one’s denying her physical contact, anymore. “It… doesn’t sound like everything’s fine, though. You seem troubled.”

“I’m- not,” Colette insists, fist pressed tight against her thigh.

Martel just keeps petting Colette’s hair, soft and soothing. When she speaks again, it’s only with gentleness.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re scared?”

Colette flinches, but she doesn’t deny Martel that one. Maybe she is scared. And she thinks it’s a funny thing to be scared about, because she’s made much more difficult, much more serious decisions, without feeling even an inkling of fear. Offering up her life to save someone else? Done, easy. Facing an inevitable change in a relationship that means so much to her? She’s so terrified she can’t move.

Martel manages to coax it out of her, though. She’s so used to sharing secrets with Martel. What’s one more?

“It’s just… Lloyd already has Zelos,” she whispers. “He doesn’t need me.”

“It’s not a matter of need, Colette,” Martel counters, softly. “It’s a matter of want.”

That cold, terrified thing in her core rears its head and bares its fangs. She curls in on herself, curls closer to Martel, hair covering her face, nails digging into her thigh.

“And why would he want me? I’m not…”

_not special not worth anyone’s time_

“Colette.”

Colette blinks. Martel’s arms are around her, she realizes. It’s cold. Colette shivers, blinking against the artificial light the dreamspace has painted, her old bedroom in her old cage, everything too-perfect, too-nice, play pretend that everything’s fine so you don’t have to admit you don’t love the girl living here—

She flinches, tasting Martel’s disappointment well enough even without an emotion bleed between them.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, helpless. “Doing it again, huh?”

Martel breathes, deeply, and Colette feels Martel’s will slide under the iron-tight grip she has on the dreamspace ( _funny, she wasn’t holding it so tightly before_ ) and pry away the image Colette has painted on accident. There’s a swirling of void, for a second, as Martel makes up her mind, and then the dreamspace slams a beach down around them, the horizon an endless blue, waves crashing against the shore in a steady rhythm to fill the silence Colette hates so much. That taken care of, Martel kisses Colette’s head and pets her hair again.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Martel insists, and there’s so much love in her voice, in her touch, in the image she has painted ( _the sand beneath them feels like real sand, down to it getting in Colette’s boots as she shifts, which wasn’t necessary and must have taken extra energy but it’s grounding_ ) and Colette breathes it all in. Someone loves her. Someone does. Martel keeps speaking. “They spent _decades_ teaching you all that bullshit. It’s not going to go away in just a few months.”

Colette nods, clinging to Martel. She knows that. She just wishes the spiral threatening to claim her wasn’t so deep, because this is the worst it’s been in months and that _sucks._

“But let me remind you that what they taught you is wrong,” Martel continues, voice steady, and soft. “If someone loves you just because you are useful to them, then they do not love you at all. Real love is when someone loves you for just being you—and I _know_ that’s why Lloyd loves you. He’s incapable of any other kind of love.”

Colette laughs, soft, somewhat reassured. Martel’s right about that, at least.

“Still…” she whispers, into Martel’s shoulder. “Lloyd already _has_ a boyfriend.”

Martel laughs like Colette’s being silly. “Lloyd can have a boyfriend _and_ a girlfriend, if he wants to, and if you want that, and Zelos is okay with it,” she says. “There’s no rule against it—so long as all three of you are on the same page.” She reaches up and boops Colette on the nose, and Colette scrunches up her face. “You’re just fishing for excuses at this point.”

“I’m not,” Colette protests. “I just have a lot of worries.”

“Well most of them aren’t going to go away until you talk to Lloyd, and see what he thinks,” Martel says, and Colette sighs.

“Yeah,” she relents. “But I’m scared of things—changing.”

“Things always change, Colette. And if you let them change without weighing in how you _want_ them to change, you always regret it.”

 

\- - -

 

There’s really no denying it to herself, anymore.

She’s absolutely, completely in love with Lloyd.

Of course she is. He goes out of his way to make her smile, to buy her things she never had the chance to have, to say dumb things just to make her laugh, to cook her favorite foods. His touch is gentle, and his laughter is light, and being with him is like coming home. How can you deny yourself a piece of home?

Not that she’s really sure how to _tell_ him she’s in love with him. She should take Martel’s advice, make the move before things crumble down around her, but though she is selfish, _taking_ the things she wants is something she is still getting used to. She wasn’t allowed to _take_ what she wanted, before. She wasn’t even allowed to _want,_ before.

She wants Lloyd, though. She wants to hold his hand without feeling anxious, like she used to. She wants to kiss him, like Zelos does.

She wants to love him.

( _But what if he doesn’t want to love her?_ )

 

\- - -

 

“Come on, Colette, how long do you plan on putting on this charade?” Zelos asks.

“What?” Colette says, frantically trying to take her emotion bleed and hide it _elsewhere,_ as if that could do her any good. He’s already felt all of the incriminating evidence. Still. She puts on a mask of confusion and innocence, smiling pretty and polite, like she used to, Before. She knows he sees right through it. She does it anyway.

“Colette,” Zelos says, and just his tone is enough to convey all his disappointment.

They’re alone in the room they share with Lloyd. He’s elsewhere, right now, helping Genis solidify his plans for a journey Genis is setting out to take. And, hopefully, not paying any attention at all to the emotion bleed. Not that it would matter, much, probably. Colette’s been sloppy about hiding her signals all week, and they’re _worse_ now, too, because once she admitted she was in love with Lloyd even just to herself ( _and Martel_ ) there was really no going back. It’s no wonder Zelos finally caught on.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Colette insists, and very deliberately does not think at all about Lloyd’s arms around her waist last night. It’s like that every night. It’s not special. ( _But it could be, maybe. If she just asked for it._ )

( _How do you just…_ ask _for that_?)

Zelos just tilts his head a little, disappointment slowly becoming something smug and a little mean. He raises his eyebrows, chin up, eyes flashing _._ “Keep this up, and maybe I’ll just have to return the favor you did for me and lock you in a closet with him…”

Oh, that’s not _fair._

Colette opens her mouth to protest, but gets stuck on how actually that maybe wouldn’t be so bad…? No, no, Colette, _please._ You can’t let yourself think like that, not until you’re sure Lloyd wants it, too!! She keeps a firm grip on the emotion bleed so Zelos ( _and_ definitely _not Lloyd_ ) can’t feel her mortification ( _both at the suggestion and how much she actually wants it_ ), but there’s absolutely nothing she can do about the bright pink glow of her cheeks as she blushes. She ends up hiding her face in her hands, more because she cannot look at Zelos, right now, cannot stand to see how smug he must be.

“Zeloooos,” she whines.

“You have _got_ to talk to him, Colette,” Zelos insists. “You can’t just keep ignoring it, because I am _not_ putting up with this emotion bleed any longer!”

She can’t blame him, for that. And she knows that avoiding the issue isn’t going to solve it. But.

She’s still scared.

Colette lets her hands fall from her face, dropping them into her lap and squeezing them together as if she could grip her anxiety by the throat and put it to rest. There’s just _so much_ , about their relationship with Lloyd, about _Zelos’_ relationship with Lloyd, that she doesn’t want to change, that she doesn’t want to intrude on… Even though she hashed these things out with Martel, kind of, they still eat at her. All the ways this could go wrong, all the ways she’d be left adrift if they did.

She should not deny herself her home. But she does not want to risk losing it completely, either.

“I just… I don’t know why he’d want me,” Colette whispers, the words coming out of her mouth so laboriously it leaves her throat raw. “I’m not- I’m.” She stops herself. Swallows it. It’s not true, what Sylvarant said about her, for starters, and second of all Zelos doesn’t really _know_ all of that even though he probably suspects it. She wrings her hands together, mumbles: “…he already has you.”

“He has both of us, Colette,” Zelos counters, determined. “He loves both of us.”

He’s right. She knows he is. But.

“What if he doesn’t love me like that?” she asks, letting her fear spill out of her mouth. “What if he doesn’t _want_ to love me like that?”

“Come on, give Lloyd a little more credit,” Zelos says.

Colette ducks her head down. Pulls her fingers until they hurt.

“I know,” she mumbles. “I know.” She’s not being fair to herself. She’s not being fair to Lloyd. She’s just so _scared._ And she lets that fear rule her, just for a moment. “But what _if,_ Zelos? What if he _doesn’t_ , and then I’ve ruined everything—”

Zelos interrupts her by getting out of his chair and grabbing her hands, kneeling down before her. He doesn’t look at her right away, though he sits and rubs his thumbs over her knuckles. He seems to be mulling something over, something _big,_ but then:

“Tell you what,” Zelos says, and he looks up at her. His eyes are serious, and his mouth isn’t smiling, but when he uses smiles to mask so much, the lack of one is reassuring, right now. “If—and that’s a _big_ if—If things actually go south between you and Lloyd, and it’s bad enough that you can’t stand being in resonance with him anymore, then I walk, too.”

Colette recoils, surprise striking a loud gong in her mind.

“What!?”

For all her surprise, Zelos feels… absolutely, one hundred percent certain.

“If he doesn’t want you, then he doesn’t get me,” he says, simply.

“ _Zelos,”_ Colette scolds, horrified. “You- you can’t just—!” She knows he knows what he’s saying but _she_ still doesn’t understand it, understand why he’d offer something like this for her. “That’s _Lloyd._ ”

Zelos nods, laughing. “Yeah. I know,” he says. “But… _Colette,_ I spent my entire life separated from you, and I’m not going to let a _boy_ get in the way of us. Not… Not even Lloyd.” He has some trouble saying it, there, but honestly that just brings Colette relief. It didn’t feel real, until he was struggling with it. Zelos squeezes her hands. Smiles at her. “You’re my _sister._ You come first.”

He means it. She knows he does.

She laughs, watery, and pulls a hand away from him so she can wipe her eyes. This is… stupid. But it’s nice knowing that even if she bungles this, somehow, she’s not losing Zelos in it.  

“Okay,” Colette says, wrapping herself up in Zelos’ love. “Okay. I don’t. Sorry.”

Zelos shakes his head. “ _Don’t_ apologize. Like I said—you need to have more faith in Lloyd. Things _aren’t_ going to go that badly.” He squeezes her hands again and makes like he’s going to get up, but Colette clings to him, so he laughs and stays put.

“You don’t mind though, right?” she asks, anxiously, studying her brother’s face. She knows his answer already, she thinks, but she needs to hear him say it in no uncertain terms. She needs to be sure. “I don’t want to- to _take_ him from you…”

Zelos just laughs, which is a relief. “Colette, we’re _already_ sharing him, even if right now I’m the only one kissing him!” he says, grinning. He leans towards her, a touch too smug again, and adds: “But I don’t _have_ to be the only one kissing him—”

“Shut up!” Colette whines, pushing Zelos’ face out of hers. He cackles.

“Offer still stands to lock you in a closet with him…”

“ _No,”_ Colette says, hastily. She’s blushing again. Dangit, Zelos. ( _But it’s not like she_ needs _to be locked in a closet with Lloyd to kiss him, they can kiss elsewhere— stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, one step at a time, Colette._ ) “I’ll- I’ll talk to him, okay? I promise.”

“You better,” Zelos says. “I’m giving you twenty-four hours, and then I _will_ lock you in a closet.”

Colette glares a little, but, whatever. It’s only fair to let Zelos have that, and he’s just _threatening,_ anyway…

She squeezes his hands, again. “Thank you…” she mumbles.

Zelos stands up, kisses her on the top of her head.

“Of course,” he whispers. “Now go knock him dead, sweetheart.”

 

\- - -

 

Zelos makes excuses to be elsewhere, which leaves Colette alone with Lloyd in their room. They’re curled up together, propped up on pillows and leaning against the wall, because since the day they resonated, cuddling is like second nature between them. A familiar, easy pattern, and Colette lets Lloyd hold her and tries not to be too anxious. She focuses on the way he runs his fingers up and down the ether lines on her bare arm. The warmth he cradles her with. The gentle pink glow she casts in the room—it’s not completely dark, in here, but the light low is enough that the glow is noticeable.

It’s the perfect moment. It should be easy.

Colette doesn’t know how to not be scared. She clings to Lloyd tighter.

“Colette…?” Lloyd asks, softly. “Is everything okay?? You’ve been kind of weird all week…”

“I’m fine, nothing’s wrong,” Colette says, immediately.

The doubt in their emotion bleed is thick, and Colette sighs in its wake, though she guesses she should have expected as much. ( _Zelos has politely chosen to stay out of the emotion bleed right now, his signals all distant, muffled. She misses the way he grounds her, but supposes the lack of distraction is appreciated, as well._ ) She quickly clarifies, to Lloyd:

“I mean, it’s not anything bad,” she says, which is mostly what she meant to begin with, anyway. She’s _nervous,_ but it’s not like something _bad_ happened, she’s just got a lot of irrational fears she’s working through and not a lot of courage.

The sound of rain slowly picks up, outside, gently hitting the windows. It’s comforting.

“Then what’s the matter?” Lloyd laughs, kissing Colette’s forehead playfully. Internal thought becomes a high whine, for a second, because that’s not _fair,_ Lloyd shouldn’t be able to do that and immediately send her thoughts crashing with the gesture.

Feeling kind of giddy, though her anxieties make a good anchor, Colette says: “I’m just… nervous, I guess?”

“What are you… nervous about?” Lloyd asks, dragging the sounds out with his confusion.

Colette shifts a little, where she sits, squirming with her discomfort. “It’s like… Okay,” she says, meaningless words to fill the silence as she thinks, tries to gather her courage. “Just…” she tries, again. “Um.”

Lloyd squeezes her hand, and her anxiety in their link is met with the gentle touch of his reassurance. Ugh, she loves him so much.

Come on, Colette! Nothing to do but say it!

She clutches his hand like it’s a lifeline, takes a deep breath, takes the plunge.

“I think I’m in love with you,” she says.

Lloyd is silent for a moment. Quiet surprise fills their emotion bleed, making her resolve tremble a little bit, like a tree in the midst of a raging river. Colette breathes very carefully. Squeezes Lloyd’s hand a little tighter.

“Oh,” Lloyd says, finally.

Colette swallows. Tries not curl up and die.

“Sorry, that’s,” she says. “If that’s weir—”

“ _Oh,_ ” Lloyd says again, more firmly, and surprise gives way to clarity, a tidal wave that washes Colette away completely. He remains silent for a few moments more, but the emotion bleed churns with a lot of things.

“…Lloyd?” Colette asks, unable to be patient. His fingers are going to hurt, later, with how hard she’s clutching them.

“Holy shit, why didn’t you say something sooner??” Lloyd scolds, gentle and fond, twisting so he can look her in the eyes and grin at her. It’s such a bright, wide, _genuine_ grin, that Colette forgets to be scared for a moment and surrenders herself to the waves of his happiness in the emotion bleed.

She fidgets, a little, blushing with shame.

“I was nervous?” she says, like that’s an excuse.

“ _Coleeette!!_ ” he whines.

“Lloyd!!!” she says, back.

It’s half a conversation in of itself, Lloyd’s disbelief against her nervousness, tone and emotion bleed alone enough to convey their desired points without any other words. Lloyd’s disbelief turns apologetic, though, and he sighs, face scrunched up.

“I’m sorry if I said something that made you feel like you had to hide it??” Lloyd says, and Colette shakes her head, because _he’s_ not the one who needs to be sorry, at all.

“No, no,” she assures him. “It wasn’t you. I just… you know… You and Zelos are already…”

She trails off, not that she needs to finish.

Lloyd laughs, somehow, for some reason. “Yeah, but, I got two hands!!” he says.

“…what?”

Lloyd holds up his hands for demonstration, bringing one of Colette’s hands with him because he’s still gripping it. “I _mean,_ there’s one for each of you to hold!” he says, squeezing Colette’s hand before he lets their hands fall. “ _And_ I’ve got a lot of love in me, so I think I can share!! Or, you guys can share me? If that’s—” He sobers, a little. “Is Zelos okay with this?”

Colette nods, quickly. “Yeah, I talked to him,” she tells Lloyd. She ducks her head down, blushing, and as she tucks hair behind her ear she mumbles: “He insisted I talk to you about it, honestly…”

“Okay, good,” Lloyd says, clearly reassured that his boyfriend doesn’t mind. He nods, determined. “Well, then if he’s fine with it, and _you’re_ fine with it—” He cuts off again. “ _Are_ you fine with it?” he asks, gentle, peering at Colette. She flinches and drops her eyes. “… _Colette_?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Colette mumbles. “I am! I just…”

“Am I going too fast?” Lloyd asks, clearly worried.

“No, no,” Colette insists. He’s not, he’s perfect, and that’s the problem. Old things still clamor in her core, old things that whisper _how dare she,_ even though that doesn’t make any _sense_!! “I- I just didn’t expect you to be okay with this at _all_ ,” she admits, kind of watery, the claws of old nonsense so deep in her core it hurts. She looks up at Lloyd in earnest, tears brimming in her eyes.

“What—? Why _wouldn’t_ I be?” The emotion bleed spikes with Lloyd’s astonishment, and it’s clear that he thinks the idea is completely unfathomable. ( _It’s nice to see him react like this, even though she knew he would, she really did, despite the whispering in her core._ ) “Sure, I guess not everyone’s got _both_ a boyfriend _and_ a girlfriend, but I don’t see why I can’t date both of you if that’s what you guys want?? I _love_ you—”

She can’t help it. She starts crying.

“Colette??” Lloyd asks, worried, and his hands are on her shoulders, holding her tight. “H- hey…”

Colette laughs, but it’s kind of a self-despairing hiccup more than it’s a laugh. She reaches up to scrub at her eyes.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, grinning though she’s crying. She’s so _happy_ , to hear him say it. He says it all the time, but—but this time, it’s different, isn’t it? It’s what she wanted. And it’s—she doesn’t know _how_ he could love her, because she’s… she’s…

It doesn’t matter. She’s Colette, and he loves her because of that.

“You don’t have to apologize…” Lloyd grumbles, pouting but still concerned. He reaches up with one hand, brushing away her tears with his thumb. The touch is gentle enough, and she _wants_ it enough it makes her cry again. Lloyd gives up trying to wipe her tears and just holds her face, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s… Nothing to be sorry about? I just- I wanna know you’re _okay_ …”

“I am, I am,” Colette insists. “I’m just… I’m so _happy_ you love me? You’ve done so much for me, Lloyd, and I feel selfish asking for more because I don’t _need_ more, but I _want_ more, and—”

“That’s not selfish,” Lloyd interjects. “You’re allowed to want good things for yourself. You’re _supposed_ to want good things for yourself!”

He believes it so firmly and he sounds so _desperate,_ his love and his sadness filling Colette’s lungs, an offended thread underneath the rest of the emotion bleed, because how _dare_ anyone make her believe simply wanting things is selfish? He grips her tightly, fingers pressed into her scalp, breath on her face, his knees all tangled with hers. Colette keeps crying, happy but still standing on the edge of the chasm that holds all her fears and nightmares.

( _If she listens, she can still hear them whispering about how she doesn’t deserve this._ )

“It feels selfish,” she mumbles, despite herself.

“Well it’s not,” Lloyd says, a little angry, sharp like it’s the end of the argument. His anger and his love wrap around her and pull her back from the edge, the warmth of his skin drowning out the whispers of old fears.

Colette breathes, shakily. Shaky desire wells up in the emotion bleed, and she doesn’t think it’s hers.

“Colette,” Lloyd whispers, his voice a little tight. “Can I- Can I kiss you?”

Colette makes a strangled little sound, surprise and delight bubbling up in her core at the question, surprise and delight and _want._ She can’t make her throat say yes, she wants to just lean forward and kiss him but she’s never done this before and she doesn’t want to get it wrong and she doesn’t want to _take,_ anyway, she wants him to _give._

“Please?” Lloyd asks, that note of desire still high in his voice, and—

Colette nods, unable to speak, hoping all the want on her side of the emotion bleed makes it clear enough she means yes. It must, because Lloyd closes the distance between them, pulling her face towards his until their lips meet. It’s soft and warm and delight sings so loudly in the emotion bleed she doesn’t know who it belongs to. She doesn’t know _what_ she’s doing, what she’s _supposed_ to do, but just the fact Lloyd is kissing her is enough, more than enough, it's like the puzzle pieces she was missing have been found, it's like coming home.

Lloyd finally pulls away so they can breathe, and he laughs, sounding relieved and a little giddy. Colette laughs too, feeling—a lot of things. The relief is probably her own, but it’s hard to say if the giddiness is hers or Lloyd’s, and there’s still tight disbelief like _is this really happening,_ but Lloyd’s hands on her are solid and real as he runs his thumbs over her cheeks, and his smile is bright, and his eyes reflect the pink glow of her blush.

“I’m,” Colette begins, breathless.

Lloyd spends a half-second trying to think of something to say, then leans in and gives her another peck on the lips, instead. It’s a short, sweet gesture, over too fast, but Colette—who was already blushing—blushes twice as hard, because she knows he just did that because he wanted to, no other reason, and, and—

She cannot believe this is happening?? She’s so happy??

“Okay,” Lloyd says, and he drops his hands from her face and grips her hands instead, sitting back a little. He’s got one foot under him, knee bent and resting against Colette’s leg. He’s positively _glowing_ with his delight, a sweet siren song in their emotion bleed. “So, just to double check,” he says, and she loves that he does that, “This is—we’re, uh, we’re dating now, right? You and me?”

Colette hesitates, fear dragging its nails against her ankles, trying to pull her back. She wishes it wouldn’t, but: “If- if that’s what _you_ want,” she hedges.

“Of course it is!!” Lloyd insists, and she needed that, needed to hear him say it like that. “So long as that’s what you want, too…”

“It is.”

It is what she wants, what she wants more than anything.

She laughs, short, still overwhelmed. She can’t stop crying. She wishes she could. Swallowing, she assures Lloyd: “They’re- they’re happy tears, I promise.”

“I know,” Lloyd says, gentle. He squeezes her hands. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed.” There’s a soft note of concern, underneath his love and his joy. She hasn’t told him… really _anything_ about the chasm of her past or the bad brains cocktail she houses in her head, but she wonders sometimes how much he’s figured out, anyway. She’s grateful he’s patient with her. Grateful that he loves her all the same.

( _That he loves her at all, because hundreds of people before him told her she wasn’t worth that._ )

Anyway.

Lloyd starts to say something, but decides against it. Their joined hands rest on his leg, and he runs his thumbs over her knuckles, consistent and soothing. Colette breathes in the weight of it, and the weight of his love, so indescribably happy even as she trembles under the strength of it. After a moment of thought, Lloyd laughs softly to himself, and glances up at Colette, his smile kind of shy, his cheeks red.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking a lot, lately,” he admits, casually, eyes downcast again, fiddling with her fingers. “About… how I got to be Zelos’ first kiss, and all. And I’ve been thinking about how- how probably no one had ever kissed you before, either.” Colette blushes furiously, but Lloyd keeps going. “And I got to thinking- that- that I’d like to be your first kiss, too, y’know? Because that’s—special. _Especially_ for you and Zelos, who were denied stuff like that for so long. And I felt, I dunno, bad about leaving you out? And I- I _wanted_ to be your first kiss, I really did, but I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe it’d be weird, even if it was just platonic, and then I got to thinking I didn’t really want it to just be platonic, either, and…”

He’s rambling, and Colette blushes more and more with each word he says, speechless in the wake of all this. He finally catches himself and he laughs again, embarrassment a short note in their emotion bleed before he finally looks up at her for real, his shy smile more like a grin, now.

“All this to say, I’m- I’m _really_ glad you said something,” he tells her. “I’m- I love you. I’m really lucky to have you for a girlfriend.”

“ _Lloyd_ ,” Colette protests, faintly, her cheeks burning. It makes her so _happy_ to hear but it doesn’t make _sense_? “Come on, it’s not- It’s not like I’m… There’d probably be better girlfriends?”

He just looks at her, rolling his eyes like she’s silly. “What are you talking about?” he asks, and it’s love love love blossoming along their link, filling her chest. “You’re _incredible._ You and Zelos both. I know—maybe you have some trouble believing it, but it’s true.” He nods, determined. “I’m the luckiest guy alive. I can’t believe you guys, y’know, trust me? Still let me be your driver?? You guys don’t even _need_ a driver, anymore, but—”

“You’re home,” Colette interrupts.

Lloyd blinks.

“What?”

Somehow, Colette finds it in her to blush _harder._

“I-” she stammers, fumbling. This is more embarrassing to say than simply saying she loves Lloyd, but it’s... She already said it. Might as well elaborate. “You’re like home, to me,” she says, swallows. “That’s why.”

“ _Oh_?” Lloyd says, and he sounds so _incredible_ touched, and there’s this mix of _surprise-joy_ that sings loud and clear in their emotion bleed, and he’s grinning. “I—Colette, what the heck? That’s so sweet? Is that—” He leans to her, earnest. “Is that, _really_?”

Colette just nods, too embarrassed to speak.

“ _Colette,_ ” Lloyd says, unbelievably fond.

Colette just nods some more. At least she’s stopped crying, now. Warmth and joy fill up their emotional bleed, crystal clear, and all of Lloyd’s fondness wraps around her as he considers her, too touched to speak. Rain plays a gentle rhythm against the window, filling the silence, and Colette breathes, easy.

Eventually Lloyd bounces a little, where he sits, burning with a restless energy, though it’s hard say what exactly for. The emotion bleed is a beautiful mess of joy that sings louder than anything else. Lloyd steals a glance at Colette, though. His eyes flicker to the clock. Back to her. He licks his lips.

“So, uh, how long did Zelos say he was gonna…?”

Colette shrugs, though her pulse quickens, because—oh, Lloyd really isn’t subtle, is he?

“Well he- he probably wanted to give us some space, so,” Colette says, and then adds, “so I think we’ve got some time?”

“Cool,” Lloyd says, shaky with his own excitement, a jittery undercurrent to the roaring joy they’re both feeling right now. “So, uh.” He licks his lips again. “Can I- Can I kiss you, again? I really, really wanna—”

“Please,” Colette says, before he can finish asking.

And so he does.

It’s softer, slower, and Colette still really has no idea what she’s doing but she _likes_ this, she _really does,_ so she leans into it and tries to follow along, hungry and desperate for it, drinking it all in. It still kind of feels like this is a thing that shouldn’t be happening to her, but Lloyd hums, happy, and the emotion bleed sings with a delight that drowns out her fears. Lloyd lets go of her hands and finds her waist, tugging her gently closer, but it’s kind of pointless with her legs at this angle and his knee where it is, so after a second Lloyd laughs. It’s soft and cute, warm against her face, and her core swells with the sound of it.

“Hold on,” Lloyd mumbles, against her lips, and he shifts. It takes him a second, but he gets his legs situated and then pulls her into his lap, and Colette lets him, mind focused rather intently on the warmth of where their bodies meet, the gentle touch of his hands. He flashes her a quick smile, and Colette makes a startled little sound, because the way he’s illuminated by the glow of her ether is _cute,_ and _he’s_ cute, and, and he leans in to kiss her again, holding her tight. Some part of her still resists, still whispers that she is taking what she should not have, but she is not taking, Lloyd is _giving,_ and the taste of his love wrapped around her is sweet and warm, filling her lungs. It’s _real._

She wraps her arms around him, clinging, needing the closeness and the contact and hoping she doesn’t start crying again. Lloyd’s hand finds the small of her back, tracing his fingers around the circular ether line there, touch so precise he must be able to _feel_ where it is, which isn’t anything new—( _he’s mentioned before, that feeling the ether concentrated is part of what he likes about tracing them so much_ )—but it makes something trill in Colette’s chest, a desperate sound bubbling in the back of her throat.

Lloyd pulls away, just a little, concern filtering through all the joy and love in the emotion bleed. “Colette?” he asks, and she wants to apologize but that’s not going to do any good, what she really wants is to keep kissing him, but she’s embarrassed to ask so she just moves to meet him, locking their lips together again. Lloyd doesn’t protest, and though the concern doesn’t really go away, he kisses her back, content, likely reassured that he’s not doing anything _wrong._

He plays idly with her hair, and happiness sings in Colette’s veins, at that, at all of this. This- _this_ is all she ever wanted…

Or, well, not quite. She can’t say honestly that Before she spent much time aching over the fact she wanted someone to kiss her—Before, she would have been happy to just have someone smile at her and _mean it_ —but this? This, right now? Lloyd holding her like she’s precious and kissing her like she’s loved? It’s everything she never even dreamed she could have, and she’s walking on air, and she doesn’t.

want

it

to

_end._

Unfortunately they need to breathe.

Lloyd breaks the kiss, laughing and giddy, pressing his forehead to Colette’s. His chest heaves as he gulps in air, and Colette trembles with the strength of everything she’s feeling, right now.

“Lloyd?” she says, quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you… I’m so _happy_.”

She has her eyes closed, so she can’t see him react, but there is a second of hesitation that only the continued love pouring through the stream of ether tying them keeps her from worrying over. Sometimes Lloyd needs a second to pick words. Everyone does. It’s no big deal.

“I’m happy too,” Lloyd says, finally, and his voice is pitched kind of like _he_ can’t believe this is happening, which is ridiculous. “I’m—Colette, I love you so much. Can I—” Another pause, brief. “I kinda wanna try something? But if you wanna just keep kissing like this, that’s fine too.”

Colette hums, thinking it over. There’s a tight knot of excitement, she feels from Lloyd, all eager and hopeful, and so whatever this is he wants to try he must _really_ want to try it, and there’s a confidence under all that, too, and… Well, why not? She trusts Lloyd.

“Okay,” she tells him.

Lloyd _grins_. “Okay!” he says, bouncing with his excitement. “Just- here.” He pushes her back a little, and she follows his lead until her back meets the pillows, and then he’s straddling her hips, still smiling wide and easy. “Okay,” he says, and then bends in to kiss her.

She can’t help it, really, the delight and desire this nets in her chest, so she reaches up and digs her fingers into Lloyd’s hair, pulling him closer the moment he tries to pull away. He laughs against her mouth, and the taste is incredible so she kisses him harder.

“Colette,” he protests, laughing and exasperated, but the emotion bleed sings _fond fond fond._ “Colette, this isn’t even what I wanted to—”

She lets go of him. “Sorry,” she gasps, breathless, but honestly? She isn’t.

“Sure you are,” Lloyd says, but he’s grinning.

He kisses her lips again, brief, and then turns his head and kisses her jaw and, oh, _oh._ Colette giggles, a little, her ether running fast and hot as he keeps _kissing_ her, kisses trailed down her neck and across her shoulder.

“Lloyd-” Colette gasps, giggling, squirming a little. “ _Lloyd_ —”

He pauses, face still nuzzled against her skin. “Do I need to stop?”

“ _No!!_ ” she insists, breathless. It feels so _good_. “Please, please keep—” She can’t quite get the words out, but he takes that as invitation enough and he continues his trail of kisses, brushing his lips soft and gentle over her ether lines and then back across her collarbone. Colette’s hands find his arms and grip them, clinging to the love he’s pouring into their emotion bleed, not wanting to forget the taste of it.

His lips meet her core crystal and everything stops.

Everything, _everything_ is drowned out by the burning heat of the kiss he plants on the very core of her being, joy searing through every synapse she has in her. She thinks she makes a noise? But it’s hard to tell, hard to think, until Lloyd pulls his lips away _no, why did he stop._

Lloyd lifts his head up to look at her, and there’s a quiet smugness shaped around his delight. “How was that?” he asks, earnest.

Colette sends him a somewhat suffering look, because there’s no way he doesn’t have an idea of how incredible that made her feel if he’s grinning like that.

“Do it again??” she demands, and Lloyd laughs.

“Okay,” he says, and he does.

A joyful song roars in Colette’s chest, and she leans into his kiss as well as she can. He’s peppering her core crystal with kisses, though, which makes it a little easier to think—if only in stops and starts—and feels _just_ as good. She melts under the touch, the softness of his kisses, the happiness that rolls back and forth between them. His left hand trails fingers down the ether lines of her right arm, gentle and careful and _loving,_ and—

Colette’s pretty sure he has an idea; what this is doing to her, and how much she loves it. Of course he knows. He’s known since day one how much she enjoys his touch, even if he doesn’t know that he’s making up for the decades she was denied it from anyone. And she’s—embarrassed, somewhat. But is she supposed to tell him to _stop_? He’s kissing every inch of her skin—well, just her ether lines, up and down her arms, and the bits on her shoulders close to her neck, and she’s so happy she could _cry._ She feels so loved. So adored. It’s incredible??

By the time Lloyd finally slows down, Colette _is_ crying, but she’s so so so so _so_ grateful, and despite being generally overwhelmed, she feels like she’s floating amongst the clouds, the rain against the window and Lloyd’s gentle hums playing her a lullaby. Lloyd cuddles up next to her, face nestled in the crook of her neck, right arm draped across her so he can reach the ether lines on her opposite arm, still trailing fingers across them.

“I love you…” Colette whispers.

“Love you, too,” Lloyd answers, twisting his head so he can place a kiss on her chin—the closest thing he can reach without moving much more. He hums, laughter in his throat. “Hey, remember when we’d only known each other like, a week, and I called you beautiful?”

“Yeah?”

“That hasn’t changed, is all. I still think you’re beautiful.” His voice is soft and giddy, the trail of his fingers light. “I’m so- happy that you’re letting me do this? Kiss you like this? Thank you.”

Colette laughs, because what he just said is kind of _absurd._ He’s thanking _her_? “Lloyd I should be thanking _you_?” she says, core brimming with love. “For making me feel—special.”

The word tastes cold in her mouth, but Lloyd is warm and his joy is hot.

“Yeah, of course!!” he assures her, sitting up a bit so he can grin at her and she can see it. “I mean—you’re _already_ special, Colette, but… If you ever want me to help you see that you are again, uh, just? Let me know??”

She watches the exact moment the offer starts to get away from him, and his cheeks are beet red, but it doesn’t change the fact he’s _offering,_ to just—to do this again? Whenever she wants?? She’s so happy even if she’s also kind of confused, but she wants it, she _wants_ it, so she nods, blushing.

“Thank you,” she says, though it doesn’t feel like enough. “I’m sorry.”

Lloyd’s face scrunches up with his confusion. “What for?”

“Just- I’m asking a lot of you…”

Lloyd shakes his head in the wake of her protest, his smile firm, eyes brimming with determination. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to do it, silly,” he tells her. His hand trails down to find hers, gripping it tight. “Of _course_ I want to. I want to make you happy, Colette. I want you to feel in no uncertain terms that you are loved and precious and if I have to kiss you silly to make that happen then I will.”

Colette was already crying, but the tears well up hot and warm after that. She’s not sure what winds her more—how firmly he says it, or how legitimately delighted he seems to be to offer.

“Thank you,” she tells him, again. He’s so good. She’s the luckiest girl alive, to have him for a driver, a friend, a _boyfriend._

Lloyd smiles, soft, and kisses her on the nose. “Always.”

 

\- - -

 

Lloyd sits in the middle of them on the couch, one hand clutching Zelos’, the other clutching Colette’s. There’s no way he’ll survive being still like this for more than a few more minutes, but for right now he seems content enough.

“This is fine, right, Zelos?” he asks, after a minute, turning to his boyfriend. “Me ‘n Colette, I mean.”

Zelos rolls his eyes, fond exasperation filling the emotion bleed. “Yes, holy shit,” he says. “I was going to die if the two of you didn’t get it together.”

“Hey,” Colette protests, as Lloyd makes a hum of surprise.

“Was- was I that bad?” Lloyd asks.

“Not as bad as her, but close,” Zelos answers.

Colette blushes, furious. That’s not fair, Zelos!!! But Zelos smiles all smug like he’s well aware and alright, _fine,_ he put up with her teasing him for ages after he and Lloyd finally got together, so this is sufficient payback, Colette supposes. Lloyd squeezes her hand, anyway, and that’s—that makes it all worth it.

“I’m just glad… _you’re_ happy with this, Lloyd,” she mumbles, unable to help herself.

Lloyd takes it in stride, though, grinning.

“’Course I am! After all—” Lloyd pauses here, turning to kiss Zelos on the cheek, and then turning to kiss Colette just the same “—this is home.”


	16. lifeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kratos, Colette, and a YWKON2 interlude that didn't quite make the cut. Minor spoilers for _Do You Know Her?_ (which, is YWKON2,)

Kratos isn’t doing too hot.

He… hasn’t been doing too hot since Lloyd was taken, to be honest. Colette understands, except she doesn’t really, because she knows it’s more than worry for Lloyd’s safety that plagues him. There’s something else, something buried under centuries, something that she knows of—because he’s mentioned it, and Anna’s mentioned it, in hushed, dodging tones, fearful whispers of what they might be doing to Lloyd that ring too personal because Colette thinks at one point Kratos had those things done to _him._

( _And she shouldn’t know, but memories of things Martel knew about Kratos still linger like cobwebs in her mind. The sharp image of Kratos’ head in her lap—that isn’t_ her _lap—fingers in his hair as he trembles, something sick and fearful lodged in the back of her throat—that doesn’t belong to her, either—she remembers lists of horrible things that she can’t remember being told, that no one told_ her.)

Watching Kratos walk like he’s a ghost, Colette wonders if it’s fears that haunt him, or memories. She wonders what kind of pain signals he’s receiving from Lloyd. She wonders what kind of horrible things those sensations dig up when he receives them.

She thinks maybe he could use a reminder that things are okay.

So she jogs a little to catch up to him, falls in step beside him. Waits a moment. His reflexes are good and it’s rude to sneak up on someone when they’re jumpy, anyway. He sends a glance at her, eyes vague like he doesn’t _really_ see her, but he nods. Acknowledges she’s there.

She takes a risk.

Reaches out, brushes her fingers lightly against his. An invitation.

His hand jolts away from the touch, at first, then relaxes. Colette waits, patient, leaving her hand where it is. A persistent, open invitation.

He accepts it, takes her hand in his and squeezes her fingers hard enough it almost hurts.

Colette doesn’t say anything, just squeezes back. She doesn’t mind. Really, she doesn’t. He doesn’t have to speak, and she doesn’t think he needs her to speak, either—if he just wants to grip her like she’s a lifeline, that’s fine. She’s happy to be a lifeline.

( _She’d be happy to be a slightly more persistent one, if he wanted, but he’s shot down her offer to resonate with him, so. That’s fine, too._ )

After about ten minutes, Kratos sounds like he’s breathing normally, again, and his grip on her hand relaxes. He doesn’t look at her, but he squeezes her fingers gently, briefly.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

Colette beams up at him.

“You’re welcome.”


	17. it comes with a price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kratos and Martel, on why Martel spent so long hiding in the back of Colette's mind, and the depths of Colette's pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: i added the final portion of this oneshot to ywkon itself because i felt like ywkon needed it, but it was initially written for this oneshot, so here it stays

Kratos sees the artificial Aegis, sees that scarred, bastardized core crystal. He should not be allowed to feel disgust. What Mithos did was no different. But what Mithos did was _cleaner._ It looks like whoever did this to Colette just chopped up the core crystals and pieced them together like some kind of sick puzzle.

Those are definitely Martel’s shards. But it’s hard to say whether or not any of this is Martel.

Which is why he does not hurry. Bringing Colette to Mithos at this point—

Well, it probably would not be difficult to take all of Martel’s shards and piece them back together. But what then would happen to Colette? Kratos cannot in good conscious walk her to Mithos like a lamb to the slaughter, cannot sacrifice her for Martel ( _though perhaps, in another lifetime, he might have_ ). Best to wait it out. Figure out what exactly is going on here.

Figure out how exactly to convince Mithos to not just blindly sacrifice another Aegis for his sister.

Besides: there are things Colette keeps doing. Touches too familiar, knowledge too intimate, to simply be her own. She looks at him, sometimes, with eyes too sad for a girl who only just met him, and Kratos wonders.

Oh, does Kratos wonder.

 

 

When Martel reveals herself, Kratos is not exactly surprised.

He is a little disappointed, though.

( _All this time, and she did not even say a word?_ )

 

 

He asks her about that, later. Catches her alone—as alone as he _can_ catch her, anyway, because it seems there is very little she and Colette can actually keep from each other, but it’s her that he’s talking to, and not Colette, and there’s no one else around to overhear.

He asks her why she didn’t say anything, and she sighs.

“I’d already taken so much from Colette,” is her answer, sad, brows furrowed and hands clasped on folded knees. “I didn’t want to take any more.”

Kratos sits with his ankles crossed, hands resting on their intersection, a little slouched. He turns and sends a look at his first and oldest friend, at the sister he hasn’t seen in hundreds of years, still disappointed and not quite understanding. “I… don’t think she sees it like that,” he tells Martel, knowing that Martel would not have let this stop her unless she was truly concerned about what Colette thought.

“That’s what makes it worse,” Martel admits, and there’s something tight about her words, something bitter under their surface.

Kratos studies her, carefully, though he cannot quite pin what it is. He supposes he’s out of practice.

“Martel…” he begins.

Martel’s hands open, trembling, then tighten into fists. She straightens her back and rounds on Kratos, her eyes blazing with her anger. “Colette had _nothing_ in her life, absolutely nothing, and she just _expects_ me to keep taking more out of that nothing,” Martel says, words sharp and articulated with a fast-paced fury the Yggdrasills only get when they’re intensely upset. “I’m—I’m glad to be here, I really am, but I didn’t want to _steal_ her life. And…”

She breaks off, reaching up to trace the fresh scars in her core crystal, expression pinched. It’s a long moment before she speaks again, long enough Kratos wonders—is Colette speaking to her, or is she just mulling things over? Neither her nor Mithos usually need this long to mull, but… sometimes…

“The least Colette deserves is to have someone love her, and to love her for who _she_ is, not because of me,” Martel says, finally, voice quiet. “Lloyd was blissfully ignorant and unaware and for the first time in Colette’s entire life—her _entire life,_ Kratos, and she’s been alive for _decades!_ But for the first time, she felt like she was special. And wanted.” Martel’s anger softens, though her sadness still shapes her words, words she speaks as if the mere thought of them is intensely sacred. “Just for being _her._ Not for being anything or anyone else. I couldn’t take that from her.”

“And so you hid,” Kratos says, understanding, though his core still aches with sadness.

Martel nods. “I’m glad I don’t have to, anymore, because I _missed_ you,” she says, sending Kratos a shaky smile. “But I still—I hate having to share with her. It’s not fair. Not to her.”

“Not to you, either,” Kratos argues, not wanting to hear his sister put herself down so quickly.

Martel just smiles, tight and bitter. She’s silent for a long, long, long moment.

Then she turns to her brother, the anger on her face like a knife she presses to his throat.

“Why didn’t you save them?” she demands.

Kratos blinks, taken aback, knocked off-kilter by the weight of her anger and the fact that _he’s_ the target of it. “What?” he says, not quite following.

“The artificials,” Martel elaborates. “You saved Mithos and myself, after all. And you- you _had_ to have known the artificials existed. You had to have known how they were being used, and I _know_ you weren’t okay with that.”

Kratos turns away, shame creeping up his neck. “I… was tired, Martel,” he answers, though it’s not a good answer.

“They were _suffering_ ,” she spits.

“They weren’t being put in the cannons.”

Martel shakes her head, mouth contorted with her anger. “I think what happened to them was worse,” she says, with a grim, furious certainty.

Kratos doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to.

“You could have done something,” Martel accuses, into his silence. “You could have, and you _didn’t_ —”

“I am but one blade, Martel,” Kratos protests.

“That didn’t stop you the first time!” she scoffs.

“Martel.”

She shifts, knees turning and tucking under her, hands pressed into the grass below as she hauls herself forward, puts her face in Kratos’, unspeakable and indescribable despair in her eyes and voice underneath the sharp furrowing of anger in her brow. When she speaks it’s too fast, too tight, too Much, like she cannot possibly hold all she has seen from the depths of Colette’s memories in, and eager to prove a point she gladly lays all that evidence down for Kratos:

“She spent her _whole life_ bending over backwards just to please them, so that maybe, _just maybe_ , they would treat her with an ounce of love, because she could never measure up to the original, to _me,_ in their eyes. And she knew that and she couldn’t change it but she tried to make up for it, anyway, but she never could and they never cared about her.” She’s trembling, with all her rage, and Kratos leans a little back, trying to not get caught up in the wake of it. “She doesn’t think she’s allowed to be loved unconditionally. She gets terrified of stepping out of line. She didn’t even think running was an option, was too scared to try, I had to _fight her_ to get her out of there, Kratos, I—”

“I cannot save every hurting blade, Martel,” he interjects, because she is right to be upset but she is not right to put all that blame on him. “You are being unfair.”

Martel glares at him, but seems to realize herself. She sighs and sits back, hands clutched in her lap, lips still pursed with her anger.

“…maybe I am,” she admits, finally. “I just wished someone had saved her.”

“ _You_ did,” Kratos reminds her.

It doesn’t seem to reassure her. All she does is stare out to the distance, shaking her head.

“Much too late to be of any good, I fear,” she says, bitter and tired.

“A late rescue is better than no rescue at all,” Kratos argues. “All there’s left to do is let her heal.”

Martel takes a deep breath, shoulders slumping like she’s already exhausted by the notion. “There’s so much to heal…” she whispers, almost defeated, and Kratos considers—his sister, and how much she must have seen, must know about Colette. Kratos knows he accidentally dumped much of his own trauma into Martel when their consciousnesses overlapped in the dreamspace ( _though she dumped hers into him in return_ ), but sharing an entire mindspace with someone must be so much more intimate, so much more intrusive. He wonders what it must be like to constantly taste the depths of Colette’s pain and yearning, instead of simply knowing how horrible the world was to her.

It’s really no wonder that it’s breaking Martel so thoroughly she’s struggling to keep her head up.

( _But she will keep her head up. She is Martel Yggdrasill. She is incapable of being beaten down, and Kratos knows this._ )

“She can do it,” Kratos says. “After all, we did.”

“I don’t think our wounds were nearly this deep,” Martel counters. “Or at least, mine weren’t.”

( _And she’s right, there. Even Kratos—who was born into pain while Mithos and Martel weren’t—knew at least that what was being done to him was wrong. Martel speaks as if Colette cannot even fathom that notion._ )

“But…” Martel continues, determination rising in her tone. Kratos smiles.

“Time and patience, Martel,” he reminds her. “She’ll get it eventually.”

“You’re right,” Martel says, head held high. “Because I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to make sure of that.”

And once Martel Yggdrasill sets her mind to something, it gets done.


	18. Genis, Kratos, and something inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you put two people with touch-related trauma in the same party this was something that was bound to happen.
> 
> Or: Kratos and Genis briefly reflect on trauma they have in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for dicussions of past abuse, largely of the physical variety. discussions are brief, mostly just allusions to the matter, and do not go in-depth at all.

It’s simultaneously nothing and everything.

Genis puts a hand on Kratos’ shoulder and Kratos’ heartrate spikes and he’s shoving Genis away form him before he thinks about it, hands striking the tender places in Genis’ body to take him down before— _wait, fuck._ Kratos breathes sharply and shakily, heart still hammering, body trembling. His vision is still blurred, alarms still sounding in his mind, but through the fog he registers Genis trembling on the ground and that’s _not_ what he wanted.

Despite every cell in his body screaming, Kratos drops to his knees and holds a hand out to the boy—

Genis scrambles back, fear wild in his eyes, hands up as if to protect himself. “I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he stammers, tripping over the words as if he cannot say them fast enough. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to please I’m sorry.”

Kratos pulls his hand back, then raises both in a gesture of peace.

“Genis,” he says, in the tone he generally reserves for Mithos on his worst nights, somewhere between firm enough to grab attention but gentle enough as to not cause alarm. “I am not angry with you. I just… I do not like being touched, unexpectedly.”

Genis doesn’t respond, but he does stop stammering apologies, so that’s something.

Kratos continues, heart still beating too-fast in his throat, every inch of skin abuzz with tension, but trying to keep his voice gentle:

“I should have said something, so this is my fault,” Kratos says. “So I am sorry.”

He knows he should not be sorry, for reacting to an old trigger, but he did not exactly ask for the slightest unexpected touch to send him into survival mode, and he does feel bad about causing Genis so much distress. Especially since it _is_ his fault, for not mentioning this was a thing Genis should be careful of—There is no reason to blame Genis for crossing a boundary he did not know he was not supposed to cross.

Genis does not exactly appear to be any better, still trembling and breathing in short, erratic gasps. But the fear in his eyes becomes something a little darker, and his mouth pulls downward in anger.

“Yeah you _should’ve_ fucking said something,” he spits, heaving. “People _generally_ like being told that they’re traveling with a _walking bomb_.”

Kratos flinches, because Genis did not have to phrase it like _that,_ but Genis is not exactly wrong, either. It’s just a difficult thing, to navigate. Every time he tells someone new that he does not like being touched, they always ask him why. He does not like explaining why.

“I’m very sorry,” Kratos repeats. “Are you alright? Should I get Raine?”

“I’m just fucking _fine,_ thank you, I just don’t exactly like being thrown suddenly but who honestly who would?” Genis snaps, all fire and rage, which is somewhat of a relief except also makes Kratos’ ether run hot, alarms ringing in his mind again. He _is_ at fault for not communicating but he is _not_ at fault for reacting like he did. Maybe something shows on his face, or maybe Genis just realizes he is being somewhat unfair, because he takes a longer breath, turns his head away, still scowling. “Sorry,” he grumbles. “I’m- I just- I hate being touched, too. Bad driver, y’know? Guess you probably understand that.”

Kratos’ stomach clenches. He does not, not personally, but the picture paints itself quickly enough. The fact someone would treat their blade like that—!? Anger makes his blood curdle, and he bites down on his tongue, newfound grief thick in his mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Genis,” he says, again.

Genis pushes himself up, dusts himself off, still not looking at Kratos. “Not your fault,” he scoffs, laughter angry. “I’m the one who fucked up, stepped out of line, wasn’t good enough—”

“ _Genis_ ,” Kratos interrupts, core tight with despair. “Please do not speak like that. I cannot be angry with you for doing something you didn’t know you weren’t supposed to do. _I’m_ the one who should have communicated. And I cannot fault you for how you reacted, either.”

“It’s just stupid,” Genis says, scowling. He hugs himself tight. “It’s- I know you’re not him. He’s dead. He can’t hurt me. But I still—”

Kratos shakes his head. “It’s not stupid,” he says, firmly, pressing up against Genis’ anger and hurt with all the love and conviction he can muster. “It’s unfortunate, but natural—when we go through something like that, our mind and bodies wire themselves to survive, and… Those pathways never quite go away, in us. Your reaction was perfectly natural, and I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

“Still sucks, though,” Genis grumbles.

“That it does,” Kratos admits.

“…sorry I hurt you, too,” Genis whispers. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I am,” Kratos assures him, smiling gently. “Just… please don’t touch me without my consent again.”

“Yeah, same.”

That should be the end of it, Kratos thinks. He should really go get Raine, or let Genis go to find his sister himself, but. Something about the silence that stretches between them now is comfortable, at least. Some kind of mutual understanding. Genis still hugs himself, but he seems to have relaxed—as much as one can be expected to, anyway—and…

Kratos supposes he doesn’t _owe_ it to Genis, but if Genis told him, it’s only fair to trade information, right? It’s kind of an unspoken rite between flesh eaters, anyway. A show of trust, as well.

His ankles are protesting from the way he is squatting, so Kratos sits down, and, taking a deep breath, says: “It wasn’t a bad driver, for me. It was… the scientists who experimented on me. My driver died not long after I was awakened, so I never got to know them.”

Genis considers him for a long moment, then laughs, jealous. “Lucky you,” he says.

“Don’t say that,” Kratos spits before he can think, mind full of that pervasive fear that was the first thing he ever knew, the _please no please_ coming from the voice of his driver, a _child’s_ voice, terrified and over their head, no more in control of the situation than he was, and he will _not_ let anyone insinuate they were—

But then he remembers who he is talking to, and what Genis has told him, and. That’s not fair, is it?

“Sorry,” he says, quickly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t. That wasn’t fair of me, to you.”

Genis sends him a long look, then slowly sits down next to him, shrugging. It seems kind of exaggerated, for show, but that’s fine.

“Nah, it’s alright,” Genis says. “I guess- I mean some people have good drivers. _Colette_ does. But—I dunno if Lloyd’s capable of being bad. He’s perfect.”

It’s said with all the fondness of a young boy with a crush, and Kratos laughs despite himself. Genis sends him a quick scowl, cheeks painted with the murky glow of his blush.

“Just- maybe your driver was like him, is all,” Genis says, quickly, as if that being his end goal for bringing Lloyd up to begin with changes the fact he called Lloyd _perfect._

Kratos smiles and lets it slide, though.

“Guess we’ll never know,” he says.


	19. pardon all my precious scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You… know that I’m a flesh eater,” Kratos says. 
> 
> Anna laughs, just a little. Be kind of hard not to know that, seeing as he made it very clear within the first few minutes they spent talking to each other. “Yeah,” she says, to fill the silence, to nudge him into getting to the point of it.
> 
> “Well…” He’s not looking directly at her, his face contorted much like he doesn’t want to be having this conversation, but his shoulders set like he intends to have it anyway. “I was thinking… I should tell you the how. And the why.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for the usual bullshit re: Kratos' backstory, which I guess just means "human experimentation is the topic on the table", though it's not discussed in detail, and there's no flashbacks or anything, it's just something they Talk About
> 
> child death and the grief accompanying it is also discussed
> 
> chapter title from [this song](https://genius.com/Set-it-off-stitch-me-up-lyrics), which is a Big ywkon kranna song for me, especially considering the artist commentary on it

“Anna,” comes Kratos’ voice, soft, from the doorway.

Anna, splayed out on her stomach on her bed, pulls her head out of the book she was reading to look up at him. He looks… nervous? She’s known him for years now— _or, just two? Feels like she’s known him forever_ —so she’s pretty confident in her ability to read him, but this isn’t an expression she’s used to seeing on him. She squints at his face, trying to read those red red eyes of his, and hums so he knows he has her attention.

“Can I… tell you something?” Kratos asks, and there’s this… trepidation, shaping his words. Anna squints, a little baffled by the sound. He’s usually weird about speaking, always over-cautious ( _she loves that about him_ ) but today feels… Different.

Her overactive mind already spins to try and guess what this is about. What could he possibly have to tell her? _I love yous_ are already on the table, and even as weird as Kratos is, Anna highly doubts that’s something he’d lead a marriage proposal with ( _and, she_ knows _Kratos. They’ll probably have twenty conversations about marriage before it’s actually on the table._ )

Anyway, stop over thinking it, Anna. It could be anything, really. You don’t know _all_ his secrets.

She’s lucky Kratos is patient, because it’s probably been thirty seconds by the time she’s gotten her thoughts reined in enough to sit up and mark her place in her book and give him all of her attention.

“Yeah, of course,” she tells him. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering immediately, Kratos scowls. The scowl’s directed at the words lodged in his throat, and not at her, Anna knows, which makes her kind of fond. She’ll give him a minute before she presses, even though she’s much less patient than he is. She tries not to fidget, tries not to let herself fill up with anxiety. Kratos speaks before too long, at least.

“You… know that I’m a flesh eater,” he says.

Anna laughs, just a little. Be kind of hard not to know that, seeing as he made it very clear within the first few minutes they spent talking to each other. “Yeah,” she says, to fill the silence, to nudge him into getting to the point of it.

“Well…” He’s not looking directly at her, his face contorted much like he doesn’t want to be having this conversation, but his shoulders set like he intends to have it anyway. “I was thinking… I should tell you the how. And the why.”

“Oh.”

Anna blinks, a little numbly, the weight of this hitting her kind of all at once. Flesh eaters usually aren’t very open about the _why_ they are the way they are, deeply personal as it is to be one. This isn’t just… _anything_ Kratos wants to tell her. It’s something very important.

It’s also something very serious, and her previously playful-curious mood has to be yanked down from the clouds and replaced with understanding, trepidation.

Her reaction and following silence as she wrestles with the profound thing that is this moment are, clearly, not what Kratos was hoping to see. He immediately shifts, ducks his head down like he’s embarrassed—regrets it, maybe, _please don’t regret it_ —and he turns his body almost completely away, like he’s just going to step out the door and go.

He doesn’t. But.

“I mean, if you—if you don’t mind hearing it, anyway,” Kratos hedges, quiet.

Anna’s on her knees on the bed, leaning towards him—she should just climb out and cross the distance, but her mouth is moving faster than the rest of her—as she hastily says: “No, no, of course I don’t mind,” she assures him. “You… _want_ to tell me, right?”

He hesitates.

“…Yes.”

Not very confidence inspiring.

“Just don’t—” Anna leans more towards him, rooted to the bed for no reason other than that she’s so caught up in her concern she can’t think enough to move. “I don’t want you to think you _have_ to, or that you’re _obligated_ or anything, because it’s not like I care—” That came out wrong. “I mean, I do _care_.” The why doesn’t matter to her, but him telling her matters, if it matters to him. “Just—Just don’t tell me if you don’t want to, Kratos. You don’t owe this to me.”

Kratos sighs, softly. His hair’s covering too much of his face from this angle for her to tell if he’s smiling or not. When he looks up at her again—a hesitant, cautious meeting of her eyes—his mouth is carefully neutral.

“I want to tell you,” he says, clearly.

“Okay,” Anna says. Good. That’s what she wanted to hear from him. “Okay. Then- Then I want to listen.”

She wonders if she should tell him to come sit, or—actually.

“Can I make some coffee, first?” Anna asks. She desperately needs something to do with her hands, and she prefers conversations over coffee, anyway.

Kratos snorts, sharp enough he ducks down with the weight of it, covering his mouth quickly.

“What?” Anna demands.

“Sorry,” he whispers, though he doesn’t sound it. “It’s just strange to me that you’re so obsessed with coffee, considering how much you hate its taste.”

“I do not!!” she protests.

“And yet by the time you’re done with it, it doesn’t even taste like coffee anymore.”

Anna rolls her eyes. “So?” she asks, as she finally gets around to climbing out of the bed. She squeezes past him and heads down the hall to her house’s little kitchenette. There’s still coffee in the pot from this morning so she just pours that into her mug from also from this morning ( _she thinks it’s hers, and if not, who cares_ ) and gets Kratos a clean mug ( _he’ll care_ ) to pour him some as he sits down at the bar, his back to Anna and the kitchen, for the moment. Anna would have probably voted for the couches to sit at, but the bar’s fine, too. Doesn’t really matter.

“Cream?” she asks Kratos. Sometimes he doesn’t even want it, the weirdo. Anna’s already filled her mug with her usual half-coffee-half-cream _perfection._

“Blacker the better today,” Kratos tells her.

“Insane,” she mumbles, shaking her head.

“Says the woman not even drinking coffee.”

“Shut up.”

It’s light, easy, her scowl more of a smile. Feels almost strange to pass this back and forth before what Kratos _wants_ to talk about, but what’s life without a little levity amongst the heavier things, huh? Anna deliberates a moment, then moves around to the other side of the bar, so she can sit across from Kratos instead of next to him. She passes him his coffee, hoists herself up onto the barstool. He takes a polite sip. Anna almost knocks half hers back in one go before she remembers she’s probably going to want it for the rest of this conversation.

“Okay,” Anna says, signaling that she’s ready.

Kratos hesitates, a moment. After a full minute and another sip of coffee, he coughs lightly.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, head bent down. “I’ve never really… had to _talk_ about it. Or if I have, it’s been a couple hundred years.” ( _He can’t honestly remember how much he told Martel and Mithos, and how much they just figured out, with his memories bleeding into their dreams the same way theirs bled into his._ ) He swirls his coffee idly. “Honestly… there’s only one other person alive, now, who knows this.”

That steals the breath from Anna’s lungs.

She knew, already, of _course_ she knew, she knows _very well,_ that Kratos Aurion, the war hero, the blade who humanity betrayed, trusts her, _her_ of all humans—But she feels the weight of that trust a little more strongly, in this moment, and she tries not to reel under that weight. She’ll be one of two people who know this about Kratos. The other one is probably Mithos. _Mithos,_ who Anna knows Kratos trusts more than anyone on this planet. To think Kratos apparently trusts her as much as he trusts Mithos?

That’s a lot.

“Well…” she makes herself say, around the knot in her throat. “Take your time.”

Kratos sighs, deeply.

“It’s… not pretty,” he warns.

Unsurprising, really. Anna thinks about what she knows, about her family and those of them that are like Kratos. She thinks about how the way Kratos has and hasn’t talked about it, up until this point, is much like the way Nia does and doesn’t talk about it ( _Nia, who was forced by the man she still calls father though she refuses to have anything to do with him_ ) and not at all like how Akhos and Patroka do and do not talk about it ( _a hasty choice, for them, not wanting to lose each other after their drivers died in battle_ ). All three of them would likely warn her of the same thing, before they told her their story.

“It usually isn’t,” Anna says.

Kratos hums. Not fond. Not upset. Contemplative, Anna thinks. She takes a drink of her coffee.

“I guess… I’ll start at the beginning,” Kratos says, finally. He stares into his mug. He takes a deep breath, slow and careful, shoulders tense. Of course, this is Kratos, so the words don’t come immediately after that. He’s naturally slow, over-cautious with his words, which Anna doesn’t begrudge him for—especially not about _this._ All she can really do is wait for him to find the words and the courage to speak them.

She can wait for him, and she can…

Anna reaches her hand across the bar, towards him, lays it within his reach. An invitation he does not have to take. His eyes flicker over to he her hand, and he considers it for a moment. He knows he doesn’t have to. He knows. So when he lifts his hand up onto the bar and meets her hand, Anna’s chest sings with quiet delight. She squeezes his hand, gentle, then turns it over in hers, presses her palm into his thumb, her index finger tracing the open circle of ether on the back of his palm in a slow, steady, repetitive motion. She knows it he likes it. Knows it comforts him.

He sends a small, grateful smile at her, tainted only by the weight sitting on his shoulders right now. He takes a drink of his coffee. Takes a deep breath, as he sets the mug back down.

“There was a man named Kvar,” he says, quiet.

Anna tenses at that name, something familiar but unplaceable roaring in her chest. She goes very still, nails scraping against Kratos’ skin before she remembers herself. “Sorry,” she says.

Kratos blinks at her, but he doesn’t pull his hand away, so that’s something. “Anna?” he asks.

Anna shakes her head. “Sorry, really, keep going,” she tells him, quickly. She doesn’t know what’s—this. The tightness in her chest, like she’s already sick with anger, even though Kratos hasn’t even fucking _said anything_ yet. “Just—sounded familiar, for a sec. The name.”

“Hmm,” Kratos says. He hesitates, a moment. Anna watches as his mind switches gears, and sighs, a little, disappointed in herself. She didn’t mean to _distract_ him. “Why would you find the name familiar?” Kratos asks.

Anna sighs a little louder. “I don’t know,” she says, because she really doesn’t. Well, _something_ tickles in her mind, though. “Maybe his research got published, somewhere, and I read it?” she says, and then immediately knows that’s wrong. “No, wait. There’s no way his research got published.” ( _She made sure of that—what?_ ) The hand that _isn’t_ holding Kratos tightens, nails digging into her thigh, this time. She blinks, staring absently at the kitchen wall behind Kratos.

“Anna?” Kratos asks again, leaning forward to peer at her.

“Sorry, I have no idea what I’m talking about,” Anna says, quickly, blushing with shame. This isn’t supposed to be about _her_! “Just—keep going. Take your time, but. Keep going. There was an asshole named Kvar,” she prompts, and then takes a drink of her coffee so she can’t fucking distract Kratos, again.

“Yes,” Kratos says. His fingers flex, against the handle of his mug. “He was… experimenting on blades. I was… one of those experiments.”

Oh. _Oh._ Anna drops her mug back onto the bar, feeling very cold, somewhat distant. Anger and anger and anger plays on repeat in her chest, along with horror, as Kratos’ words sink in. She’s lost all presence of mind to keep tracing his ether lines, so she just squeezes his hand instead. He clings back.

“He made you into a flesh eater?” Anna asks, because that’s the next logical conclusion, and there’s no need to make Kratos do all the work.

Kratos nods.

Anna squeezes her eyes shut, briefly. “ _Architect,_ ” she swears, because she’s not sure what else to say.

Kratos lets out a short, broken kind of laugh that makes his shoulders shake. He’s silent, after that, sitting hunched over his coffee. He looks… tired. Defeated. Anna’s seen this on him, before, the weight that clings to him as he moves through life, worse on some days, compared to others. But it’s—something else, to see this, and have a new context for it. To know the _truth_ behind the weight.

She squeezes his hand a little tighter. Her chest aches.

“I suppose… I suppose that was probably all I had to say, actually,” Kratos says after a long moment, voice quiet. He stares at his coffee but doesn’t drink it. His hair hides his face. “You can—imagine the rest.”

“Yeah,” Anna says, into the silence he opens. She can. She studies him, though, because something about his tone and the way he studies his coffee more than her makes her think—this is like all those other times before, when he’s backed out of something because he couldn’t quite make himself commit to all of it, because he didn’t want to burden or intrude. She hates when he does that, hates that he feels like he has to, so she steps in, and she asks: “Was there anything else you _wanted_ to tell me, though?”

Kratos doesn’t say anything right away, which honestly is answer enough.

“I’m,” he says, finally. “I don’t know how much I _should_ tell you,” he mumbles, fingers tapping against his coffee mug.

Anna sighs, runs her fingers over his knuckles. “You don’t _have_ to tell me anything,” she tells him again. “But like I said, earlier—if you _want_ to tell me. If it’s _important_ to you that I know? Then I want to listen.”

Kratos blinks at her, like maybe he hadn’t expected to hear those words. “Okay,” he says.

Anna takes another drink of coffee while she waits for him to make a decision. It isn’t until she puts the mug back down before Kratos takes a deep breath, and—

“In that case,” he says. “Would it be alright if I told you… everything?”

Anna nods, no hesitation. “Yeah, of course.”

“It’s a lot,” Kratos warns.

“Okay.”

“And it’s… all kind of horrible,” Kratos presses.

“Figured it would be,” Anna tells him, not letting him scare her off. She sends him a smile, keeps running her thumb over his knuckles. “I’m good, though.” She leans towards him, though, squinting with concern. “So long as you’re okay to talk about it, anyway.”

“I… think it might be nice, if someone else knew,” Kratos admits. “And I… don’t exactly want to put it off, so.”

He takes a drink off coffee, to steel himself. When he puts the mug down, he sits a little straighter, his shoulders still tight, but this time it seems with determination. He squeezes Anna’s hand, which she takes to mean he’s still alright with being touched, right now. She squeezes his hand back. Kicks her feet against the barstool as she waits for him to find his words.

“Well,” Kratos says, to start. “I think my driver was a child.”

He says just that, like it means something. Anna doesn’t quite understand, but horror stirs in her chest, nonetheless. Either Kratos realizes that she doesn’t quite grasp the significance or he just wants to keep talking, because he elaborates:

“Not that I… Ever got to see them. Or know… anything about them.” He twists his mug, aimless, eyes dark. “They were killed not long after they woke me up.” He reaches up to tap at his heart, grim. “This is theirs.”

Anna pushes her mug away from her. The coffee doesn’t even smell good anymore.

“Not pulling any punches, huh?” she laughs, weak, around the horror lodged in her throat.

Kratos ducks his head down. “Sorry.”

“Architect,” Anna mumbles. She slumps down in her seat, wishing she could throw herself against the back of the chair, but there is no back on this stool. “A _child_?” she asks.

Kratos nods. “I think so, yes. Their fear… I mean it _felt_ like it belonged to a child.”

“That’s horrible,” Anna spits. “Who would _do that_ to a child?” she asks, as if she does not already know his name, does not already know that if you intend to use someone to awaken a blade and then kill them when the deed is done, a child’s probably easier to manipulate into the job than anyone else. Disgusting. Awful. She pinches the inside of her elbow so that she does not squeeze Kratos’ hand any tighter.

“Kvar, obviously,” Kratos answers, with an edge of bitter humor. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but then: “I—think about them a lot,” he admits, like he’s never admitted it before. “Of course there is a kind of freedom in not needing a driver, but… I still wish I’d gotten to know mine, or at least gotten the _choice_ to. And they can’t have been horrible, they were just a child.”

( _He’s never told Mithos this. He’s too afraid Mithos would judge him for it._ )

Anna doesn’t say anything, not entirely sure what to say and mostly preoccupied with wrestling the sickness that roils in her stomach, wrestling it down because _Architect damn her,_ she _will not_ throw up right now.

“Just a child…” Kratos repeats, and heaves a large sigh. He knocks back what’s left of his coffee in one go.

Anna tries to imagine the grief he feels; doesn’t find it difficult at all. To have lost a child before even getting to know them? It’s a weighty, incredible grief, mourning as much for the child as for what could have been.

Not that _she’s_ ever lost a child. She’s never had kids.

But she still… she understands, somehow. She does. Like she’s—Don’t think about it, Anna, _don’t_ think about it. Don’t think about the heart that beats in Kratos’ chest.

She pinches her skin, harder, so the pain distracts her.

“You at least knew their name, though, right?” she asks, because that should be easier to bear even though it makes her chest terribly tight. “You said that’s where you got Aurion from.”

Kratos’ shoulders hunch. “I mean, yes,” he answers. “Not that I’m even. Entirely sure it was their name. I only overheard it once.”

“It must have been,” Anna insists, without really thinking about it.

Kratos, however, thinks too much. “What makes you say that?”

Anna scowls at him. ( _Don’t think about it Anna don’t think about it don’t think about—_ ) “I dunno, but like. You really think you misheard?”

“It just haunts me, that I might have,” Kratos whispers, with a shrug. “Though I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“No way of finding out, since the records are all gone,” Anna agrees, fingers still pinching her skin. “But that’s probably for the best.” Definitely, absolutely, for the best. She is absolutely going to have a bruise here, tomorrow. But, better to think about the pain, than—

What, exactly?

“Anna,” Kratos says, concerned. She stops pinching herself. He watches her, eyes narrowed and worried, and fucking _hell,_ she’s making this about her again. “We can stop…” he begins.

“No, I’m fine, I want to listen,” Anna insists. “I just—” She scrambles for something, finds it, laughs, hot and angry. “Just wish I could go back in time and snap Kvar’s neck. He had no fucking right to hurt you, like that. I wish I could’ve stopped him.”

It makes Kratos smile, then shake his head, fond. Anna sighs a little in relief, grateful for that, even though she was _completely_ serious about what she said. She wishes more than anything she could have saved Kratos all of this pain.

Kratos still considers her, concerned. “We can stop, though, really,” he says, then he laughs, short and embarrassed. “I think I’m out of things to say, actually.”

Anna leans towards him, squinting. “You sure…? I didn’t mean to distract you, honest.”

Kratos laughs again, soft if not completely carefree, and it warms Anna’s heart. “It’s not your fault,” he assures her. “I just got to thinking…” He pauses, here. Squeezes her hand before he lets go and slides off of his barstool. “Hold on, let me get more coffee.”

Anna watches as he pours himself another mug, and it strikes her that… even having suffered through unspeakable things, he’s okay, isn’t he? He’s been hurt, and he carries scars, but he’s not… unhappy. Maybe wanting to go back and time and prevent all of the horrible things happening to him is a little drastic.

Maybe just being here with him is enough.

“I’m quite serious, though,” Kratos says, as he pours his coffee. He adds cream to it this time. “There isn’t much left to say. I can tell you that I was experimented on well past the initial part where they transplanted my driver’s heart into my chest, and then you can fill in the gaps with your imagination without me having to go into excruciating detail, which would probably be quite uncomfortable for the both of us.” He says it so lightly, so simply, stirring his coffee like they’re just having a conversation about the weather, or the news.

She’s so startled by how casual he is right now that it takes Anna a moment to say anything. “I guess that’s fair,” she manages, finally. There’s certainly no reason to make him talk about anything he doesn’t want to. And, he’s right. She can imagine well enough.

Kratos takes a drink of his coffee, then inhales deeply like he quite enjoyed the taste. ( _See? A little cream can go a long way! And a lot of cream can go even further!_ ) Anna considers asking him to pour her another mug, except she’s quite certain if she puts anything more in her stomach right now it _will_ rebel, so instead she just watches her boyfriend, content, appreciating the way the sunlight gleams off his hair. More than that, appreciating that there is… _significantly_ less tension in his shoulders than there had been when they started this conversation. She likes seeing him relaxed. It’s addicting.

She doesn’t say anything, just drinks in the sight of him, putting an elbow on the bar and her chin in her hand. Kratos sits down across from her, grabs her free hand, interlocking their fingers. Anna could sing, she’s so happy about that. The thing about Kratos Aurion is that he’s so guarded, so selective, about his touches. So the fact that he’s _choosing_ to _hold her hand,_ right now? It may seem small, but it’s really, _really_ big, and—

Oh.

Her imagination fills in a few holes, consciousness analyzes them and comes to an obvious conclusion.

“That’s why you hate being touched, huh,” Anna says. It’s barely a question.

Kratos nods, looking a little more somber. “Yes,” he says, and he puts his coffee mug down. “Yes, they. There was a lot of.” He swallows. Anna scowls, hating that she’s made him uncomfortable again. “A lot of being touched, without any of my consent, without any way for me to make them _stop._ A lot of being restrained, too, whether for experiments or transportation.” His shoulders tense again, like he’s drawing in on himself, guarding himself.

Anna relaxes her grip on his hand.

“Am I fine right now, or do I need to let go?” she asks.

Kratos hesitates.

“…You’re fine,” he tells her.

He sounds like he means it, but the hesitation wasn’t exactly confidence inspiring, so Anna presses.

“Are you _sure_?”

“Yes,” Kratos says, and there’s no hesitation this time. “You’re.” He stops, blushes, seems to struggle with getting the word out from underneath his tongue. “Gentle,” he manages, finally, head turned away so she can’t see his face, and with it the depths of his embarrassment. “And it’s.” Another long pause, this time accompanied with a cough. “It’s a little grounding, at the moment.”

“Oh,” Anna says, grinning slowly and wide. That’s?? So incredible to hear?? “Good to know.” He twists his head for a second to steal a glance at her, and she makes sure she beams at him when he does. She drops her hand from her chin and then reaches over with it, needing two hands since obviously the way he’s holding her tight is doing something for him. She traces fingers over his ether lines, again, knowing he likes it when she does.

Kratos is blushing, still not quite looking at her, but his shoulders relax, at least. “Anyway, as you can imagine, all that’s why I’m not exactly humanity’s biggest fan,” he says, with a bitter little laugh.

“Hah, yeah, no shit,” Anna says. After what they put him through? “I think I hate them, too.”

“You’re human,” Kratos points out.

Anna scoffs. “Yeah, and? Doesn’t mean other humans don’t fucking suck!”

She’s still being quite serious, but Kratos laughs, and that’s. That’s alright, really. It is. She’d rather his laughter over just about anything else he could offer her, right now.

“Thank you for this,” Kratos tells her. “For listening. I feel… better, I think? I’m glad you know, anyway.”

He’s so cute, when he does things like this. Anna’s chest bursts with fondness. “Yeah, no problem,” she assures him. She squeezes his hand, gentle. “Thanks for trusting me."

“Of course,” Kratos says. He squeezes her hand back, his smile bright and full of love. “Always.”

It strikes a delighted, surprised chord in Anna’s heart, as it always does. She should be used to it, by now, but it’s a little overwhelming each time he says it, because _he trusts her, he trusts her, he still trusts her._ Even after humanity has broken him stolen from him spit on his memory, even though he’d be well within his rights to not even _try_ and trust her, because _she’s human too,_ he chose to trust her, anyway. He chose to trust her, and—he trusts her with everything, with all of him. That’s a lot.

She loves him for it.

“Hey, question,” she says, because it’s on her mind and if she dwells any longer on the warmth of Kratos’ trust she _will_ melt into an Anna-shaped puddle and Kratos will have to fetch Malos to scrape her off the floor. “Can I ask like—did you launch a daring escape, or something? Like the total badass you are.”

Kratos laughs, bright and shaking his head and that’s worth it, that’s worth everything.

“Not quite,” he tells her, though she can’t exactly be disappointed with the news when he’s still smiling like that. “Someone rescued me. I don’t remember who; it was an inside job, and I never saw them again afterwards.” He shrugs, like it’s not that big of a deal, takes a drink of his coffee. “Probably for the best. Not sure I’d have even thought of rescuing Martel and Mithos had I not been on my own.”

Anna blinks, somewhat surprised. “Really?”

Kratos nods, not exactly somber but definitely… with a stony kind of certainty. “I only attempted to rescue Martel because I thought certain I had nothing to lose, no one to miss me should I die rather than succeed,” Kratos explains. Then he realizes what he said, and sends a grim kind of smile at Anna. “Not to say I’d _hoped_ to die, I just didn’t care if I did. And I think if I hadn’t been that low at the time, I wouldn’t have been brave enough to try. Honestly, a single man taking on an entire army’s worth of defenses just to free one blade? It’s a miracle I succeeded.”

Yeah, it is.

“Holy shit,” Anna breathes, staring at Kratos in amazement. _How_ does he do that? How does he just _say things_ like that and then just sit there and drink his coffee like he said he did something as simple as run a mile or finally manage to do twenty pushups without wanting to die afterwards. He makes it so easy to forget, with his shy smiles and general awkwardness, that he is a _war hero,_ a _legend,_ the most important man on this planet, other than, like, the Aegises.

Kratos blinks at her, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“What do you mean, _what_ ,” Anna laughs, still grinning at him. “ _Listen_ to you! You’re _incredible_.”

There’s that shy smile, that way he turns his head away.

“I mean, sure,” he says. “I think stupid is the word you’re looking for, but alright.”

“No, come on, I’m serious, Kratos!” Anna tells him, brimming with all her awe and love. “I mean—yes. That was stupid. But you still _pulled it off._ And then you did it _again._ And then you _stopped a war._ That’s incredible!!” Maybe she’s gushing, maybe her grin is a little too dopey, but she doesn’t give a fuck. “Architect, I wish they hadn’t twisted history so you’re barely in it, I’d have actually _liked_ school if I was hearing about people as cool as you.”

Kratos laughs into his coffee mug. “Yes, well,” he says, somewhat bitter, his smile sharp. “If they told everyone the story of me freeing the Aegises, they’d have to admit they were torturing them to power the cannons to begin with.”

“They’d have to—” Anna’s smile falls slack, as Kratos’ words hit her like a tsunami hits an unsuspecting shore. “ _What_.”

Kratos stops. All but drops his coffee mug onto the bar.

“Oh,” he says, and he’s not smiling anymore, either. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly slack. The tension is back in his shoulders. “Oh, you have… you have no idea how the cannons work, do you?”

Anna has no words; they were all washed away by the unforgiving waters of horror. So she just shakes her head, because _no,_ she has _no idea._

“I. Hm,” Kratos says, and then, “Hm,” again. He grips his mug so tight his knuckles go white. “I think I should… Well, it would have to be—tomorrow. Later. I don’t think I can… not today. Not all that. But.” He swallows. His eyes are narrowed, determined, even though they aren’t fixed on Anna’s face. “I should tell you.”

Even if the initial tsunami of _they were torturing the Aegises_ has passed, Anna is still left standing in the destruction it has left on her mind, a ruined beach upon which she had already been trying to make her peace with _Kratos was experimented on_ , and now it’s mostly just rubble and horror and her stomach twists violently. Maybe having just coffee when she hasn’t eaten for hours was a bad idea. Unfortunately if she tries to eat anything now she will absolutely just throw it back up immediately.

She manages to find solid ground to stand on, in her mind, manages to squeeze Kratos’ hand in hers.

“You don’t have to tell me at all,” she assures him, because again; she dare not let him think he owes her any kind of explanation for anything, or at least not for his trauma. Trauma’s not something you just _demand_ to know of someone.

“Actually I quite think I do,” Kratos argues, and there is no room for escape in the certainty of his words. There is no running away from this decision. It has already been made. “Because you need to understand just how horrible those machines were— _are._ Everyone needs to know.”

Okay, cool, horrible. She can schedule that, though. She’ll have to ask if Kratos wants to tell just her or if he really means everyone, because she can arrange it so he tells everyone she knows all at once, if he’s comfortable with that but—fuck. _Later._ Definitely later.

Kratos peers at her, gentle. “Are you alright, Anna?” he asks.

Anna nods, shaky. “Yeah,” she assures him, trying to anchor herself back in reality. “Just—processing, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose I did tell you a lot.” Kratos scratches his cheek, nervous, then his eyes flicker to Anna’s near-empty mug of coffee. “Would you like more coffee?”

“ _No,_ no,” Anna says quickly. “No, fuck, I think I’d just immediately throw it and everything else I had to eat today back up all over you if I tried.”

“Ah,” Kratos says.

Silence, after that. Anna tries to wrestle her nerves back down in the stretch of it.

The worst part is—it makes sense, actually, when Kratos says that, about the Aegises, about the cannons. Like a part of her already knew but was trying to ignore it. It’s kind of like how she was more angry than surprised to hear Kratos lay out what had happened to him, to hear him say Kvar’s name. But having Kratos say all of this aloud is like having a dream suddenly manifest itself into reality. It’s tangible, when it is voiced, when someone _else_ voices it. It is tangible, and you cannot run from it, and.

Kratos speaks, derailing her train of thought, but she’s rather grateful for that. “Would you like me to be quiet while you process, or would you like some kind of distraction?”

“Um,” Anna says, and thinks it over. She definitely does not want to just keep sitting here in the silence like this, but isn’t quite sure she wants a distraction—or at least, not any kind of thorough one. Just something to _do,_ while her mind mulls it over, preferably in a back corner or under a blanket, away from most of her conscious thought. So that leaves about one thing: “Actually, a spar would be great right now, if you think you’re okay for that.”

He’s not, always. So she has to ask.

Kratos considers it for a moment, then nods. “I think I am,” he tells Anna. He squeezes her hand in parting as he gets up, taking their mugs to the sink and rinsing them. “And if not, we can find Malos, or Lora. You know neither of them need much of a reason to spar with you.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Anna says.

She doesn’t move until Kratos comes to help her down from the barstool.


	20. calm in the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little slice of JinMalos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> technically i wrote this for rp shenanigans but 1) i'm not even sure if it's going to happen, ever 2) you can barely tell it's set within the bullshit that is the rp shenanigans, so
> 
> please take Anna's dads being soft as hell

They’re a few minutes from arriving in Izoold when Malos sits up rather abruptly, a familiar taste of ether brushing his senses. Anna turns to send him an exasperated look, but Malos just grins back at her, too delighted to tone down his excitement. That’s _Jin. Jin’s_ nearby, probably waiting for them at the station, _Jin, Jin, Jin!!_

“No, you cannot jump out of the train,” Anna tells him. “Jin would be significantly less enthused.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Malos shoots back, tone full of his joy, which makes the threat incredibly empty. He can already feel Anna siphoning off the emotion bleed, but, hey, that’s fair. He tries to keep his own end in check because chances are she isn’t going to want to be feeling what he’s going to be feeling in about three minutes.

Architect, can those minutes pass any _slower?_

Malos doesn’t even pay attention to their other companions or anything else, focused as he is on seeing his husband. The train finally comes to a halt and Malos is on his feet, shoving through the crowds with loud-but-barely-sincere apologies, until finally he is on the station platform, following the pull of Jin’s ether even before he can see the flash of snow-white hair through the mass of impatient bodies.

Anna presses up against him before he gets too far.

“Come on, I’m excited to see them, too,” she hedges.

“Yeah, but someone’s gotta stick with our party,” Malos shoots back. He sends her a quick smirk, eyes burning as he adds: “Just. Give us five minutes, alright? Actually, make it ten. That’ll be plenty of time, if you catch my drift.”

Anna looks mortified for a hot second, which makes Malos just grin even wider. “Do. _Not,”_ she warns.

Malos winks and slips through the crowd to find Jin, who finds him first.

“What was that about?” Jin asks, his smirk gentle as he sends a look past Malos to Anna. His eyes don’t linger long before they’ve been drawn back to his husband’s face.

Malos’ hand finds Jin’s wrist, and he tugs gently, leading them away from all the people. “Just giving Anna a hard time,” Malos admits. He’s not _that_ impatient to like, _fuck_ Jin, but the look on Anna’s face was well worth implying he was. Plus it would keep her or anyone else from following. “And maybe wanted to say hi to you without an audience, y’know? I’m allowed, aren’t I?”

He loves the kids, he does, but it ain’t gonna kill ‘em if he steals just a little private time with his husband. And he knows Jin wouldn’t appreciate the audience, either, ice walls put up around himself like barricades, walls that Malos just loves watching melt. Jin would have been perfectly content to wait until they were somewhere significantly more private than a train station, until they could _ask_ for some time alone instead of just _stealing_ it, but Malos isn’t that patient. Even if all he does is stand here and hold Jin’s hands in the ten minutes he nabbed for them, it’ll be a welcome reprieve.

He _missed_ Jin, so much. Long distance shit _sucks_.

Jin laughs, lightly, fondly. It’s like flowers blooming in Malos’ chest. Jin’s a gentle reprieve, his presence more calming than exhilarating ( _most_ of the time), like finally slowing down after hours of moving at breakneck speed. Malos squeezes Jin’s hands in his and leans in to press their foreheads together, breathing in Jin’s smell, his ether.

“Good to see you,” Malos mumbles.

Jin hums. “Good to see you, too,” he whispers.

“A lot’s happened,” Malos continues, running his mouth on habit. “Nothing bad, exactly, just a lot of things.”

“I can imagine,” Jin laughs.

“Mind if I put off getting into them, for now?”

“I suppose it can wait a few minutes.”

“Neat.”

Malos could keep babbling, speaking to fill a silence, but the silence doesn’t seem as pressing when Jin’s right here. The silence is warm, comfortable even. Jin hums contentedly into it, and Malos laughs lightly, delighted. They sway a little together, where they stand.

It’s nice. Peaceful.

“Love you,” Malos whispers.

“I love you too.”


	21. imagine that you are Anna Aurion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (imagine that you come home, and your door is not on its hinges, and your family is gone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that [chapter 17](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933051/chapters/47795476) of 25 lives is up, here's, some bonus Anna Aurion fuckor because I think about her all the fucking time, holy shit.
> 
>  **content warnings: kidnapping, murder, human experimentation,** really the whole shebang re: Kratos' flesh eater bullshit and the accompanying horror

Imagine, for a moment, that you are Anna Aurion

Imagine that you are in the middle of work, or errands, or something, and all of a sudden your resonance with your blade, your husband

It snaps

You excuse yourself from whatever it is you are doing and you hurry home, to check on him, on your son—

 

Imagine that you are Anna Aurion

Imagine that when you get home your door is not on its hinges

There are clear signs of struggle. A fight, of some kind. There are no bodies (though there is blood) which you guess is a good thing? The kitchen table is in two separate halves on opposite sides of the room. Your couch cushions are all over the place

You call for your husband though you know you will not get an answer

You call for your son, hoping that he at least is alright

The house is empty

You overturn it even further hoping to find your husband’s core crystal but you don’t find that, either

 

You hate dealing with the government, and the police, but your son is eight years old and your husband is dead so you file a missing person’s report

For your son, anyway

No one will help you find your husband, even if you asked

You have to hope whoever finds him registers him into the system, again, instead of just waking him up

( _core crystals are nothing more than property_ )

 

The police don’t find anything

One of your neighbors does

“I- Anna I don’t know how to break this to you,” she says, voice tight. “It’s. Okay. So I took a job, right? You’ve probably seen them advertising for it—that. Data organization job from that company no one’s heard of before. Money’s money, you know, but, _Architect_ , Anna, it’s…”

“What? Get to the point!!”

“I think I know where your husband is.”

“And my son??”

“That’s—here.”

And your neighbor pulls a piece of folded, half-crumpled paper from her bag. When you unfold it you see that it’s a printed form of some kind of data file that probably wasn’t meant to be printed, and it takes you a minute to figure out what the hell is important about it but finally you’re able to look past all the garbage letters and symbols and make out what actually looks like real language

> _subject: aurion | age: 8 | notes: genetic match for 012 unusually high | 012’s driver | keep watching 012 I think something incredible is going to come out of this | biological material— heart: 012 | blood: 012, 013, 017, 020, 024, 043_

The text keeps going until it runs off the page

You look up at your neighbor, not understanding but not liking it, either

“What does this mean?”

She looks like she’s going to be sick

“It’s- he’s dead, Anna. They killed him. They. Architect, I don’t really want to talk about what they’re doing there, it’s horrible—”

“Kratos is still there?”

“Yes, Anna, it— I quit the job I had to I couldn’t take it anymore but they don’t. I don’t. I only hear about what they’re doing, the point of the job I took was that you were just. Organizing files. Not reading it. Not actually being a part of the experiments. I only found out because I saw a file labeled with Aurion so I looked and—Anna I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry."

You don’t pay any attention, really, to her apologies. Horror and despair have crystalized into sharp determination

Your son is dead, and your husband might as well be

What do you have to lose?

“Can I get in?” you ask her, urgently. “You leaving must have left an opening—”

“They always want people on their tech crew,” your neighbor assures you, her smile kind of manic, kind of bitter, eyes still wide with her horror. “I don’t- Architect I don’t know how they’re getting away with this—”

“I’ll stop them.”

“What?”

“I’ll get Kratos out, at least—”

“Anna I don’t know if you really want to see what they’ve done to him.”

You don’t, but

“I have to get him out.”

 

Imagine, for a moment, that you are Anna Aurion

Imagine your _horror_ when you reread the file on your son and understand what it means


	22. caught in the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what it says on the tin. kranna fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd intended this to be longer and significantly gayer but it's been weeks and i haven't touched it so, here

While in the market of some town, they get caught in the rain.

Normally Anna’d be all for dancing in the rain, and she dwaddles way longer than she likely should, and Kratos wishes he could let her, but they _do_ have an armful of food and other supplies that really should not get wet, so as soon as they can find a space between buildings that isn’t full of other people trying to get out of the rain, they duck into it.

It’s a tight squeeze, but honestly? Kratos doesn’t realize it, nor does he realize that Anna’d been pressed up against him, not until she jolts away.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, hastily.

“It’s alright,” Kratos says. Apparently today’s a good day, which is a surprise to him as much as it might be for Anna, though she only takes this as a cue to mean he’s not upset (which he’s not, really), and not a cue that it’s okay to touch him again, even though he thinks, actually, he might kind of want that, right now? He doesn’t get the chance to figure out if that’s true or how he intends to articulate it if it is, because Anna laughs.

“Architect, look at you,” Anna says. Her smile is bright, with a quiet kind of teasing. “You look so dumb when your hair’s wet like that.”

Kratos scowls, though she’s right. He’s used to his hair in his eyes, because that’s how he _likes_ it, but it’s significantly more annoying when it’s plastered to his skin like this. He sets their things down on a nearby crate so he has a free hand to push his hair out of his face, tucking his bangs behind his ear—a feat he really can only manage _when_ they’re wet.

“You’re one to talk,” he counters, soft, and Anna laughs.

“No I promise I don’t look nearly as bad as you,” she says, still grinning. “Holy shit. It’s so weird to see your other eye!!”

Kratos shakes his head and rolls his eyes. No sense encouraging her.

Anna manages to pull her gaze away from him and looks out to the market street, watching the rain fall. “Wonder how long it’s gonna last…” she muses, sounding more delighted than upset. “Looks like it’s gonna be a doozy. Unfortunate.” Kratos knows that smile, knows she actually prefers this turn of events. She sends a glance at him, then back out to the street. He knows that look, too, and—

Honestly he’d let her, because he likes it when she has fun and it’s cute when she dances like a kid in the rain and he _knows_ that she spent most of her life living in a desert, so he should let her enjoy this, but. Also. The sensation of her warmth, her body against his—it plays back in his mind and he realizes he _wants_ it. ( _That’s the funny thing about touch aversion, sometimes. Just because you hate being touched doesn’t mean you cannot be starving for contact—and now that he’s realized that currently the act of touch isn’t something that sets him on edge, that the sensation is stirring something pleasant in him? Oh, he wants it all the more._ )

“Anna,” he says, before she can duck back out into the rain.

Anna snaps her head back towards him and stops mid-step, looking like she’s about to accuse him of giving her shit and how _dare_ he, etcetera, but before she can open her mouth he reaches out and he grabs her by the wrist, and he watches her thoughts derail.

“Oh,” she says. She steps closer to him. “Does- does this mean…” She finds his other hand, slowly intertwines their fingers, squeezing tight, and they’re both wearing gloves but their fingers are bare and the warmth of her skin against his sears itself into Kratos’ mind. “Is this alright? Is this- are we doing this, then,” Anna says, and she cannot quite seem to finish a sentence, but she’s grinning, possibly looking more delighted now than she did about the rain. Kratos nods because he knows she needs that confirmation from him, and she grins wider, takes another step towards him, until there’s really no space between their legs at all, bodies pressed together.

“Turns out today’s a good day,” Kratos says.

“Cool,” Anna says.

And here’s the thing, about Anna. Once she has permission, she goes all out. She disentangles their fingers, runs her hands up his arms and then back down, fingers finding approximately where his ether lines are even though she can’t see them, knowing where they are from years of practice, of going through these exact motions a million times before. Kratos hums, his breath coming out a little shaky, abruptly realizing how much he’d _missed_ this.

His hands find her waist, pulling her closer, thumbs reaching up under her shirt to trace her bare skin. She laughs, softly, focuses her fingers on his shoulders and upper arms, tracing the ether lines she _can_ see, her face close to him and her breath warm. Her left hand ( _logically expected, though strange, since it used to be a motion she’d trace with her right_ ) trails from his shoulder over his collarbone until her fingers rest against his core crystal, which she strokes gently. Kratos closes his eyes inhales, sharp, his hum getting a little more urgent.

And then Anna laughs, less sharp, and her hands go still until they are suddenly running through his hair, pushing it out of his face again. “I love you, holy shit, but I can’t take you seriously with your hair like this.”

Kratos cracks an eye open, then the other, scowling at her. “Shut up,” he mumbles.

“I’m sorry you just look like a _drowned rat_ , and like it’s endearing but definitely—”

“Forgive me for not clarifying,” Kratos says, “but I suppose I should have told you to shut up and then also kiss me.”

“Oh,” Anna says, then smirks. “Well since you asked so nicely.”


	23. three tallies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion to 25 Lives [Installment 24](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933051/chapters/48777194). 
> 
> In which Jade finds a note from his previous self about his current driver.

Eventually after a long day of being shown around his new job—blade of some high-ranking Tethe’allan research scientist—Jade is finally shown to his personal quarters. He’s thankful for that, and moreover thankful for the time alone after constant chatter all day long. The rooms are nice, already set up to his personal tastes. Along with being pre-furnished, the rooms are littered with personal belongings. ( _Littered_ is a generous term. The rooms are clinically clean, everything clearly has a place it belongs, only the desk is full of piles and piles of haphazardly sorted paperwork.)

It makes sense, though, Jade supposes. Citan had _said_ these rooms had belonged to him before whatever accident there had been that Jade had gotten caught up in. Citan hadn’t seemed to want to elaborate, despite Jade’s attempts, and eventually Jade decided he wasn’t curious enough to know how he’d died to press the issue on day one. It could wait.

Jade wanders through the room that used to belong to him, curious and amused as he rifles through traces of the man he used to be. There aren’t many traces. Well, the bookshelf is telling, though he’ll have to reacquaint himself with all the books. The desk and all its scattered papers tells him… Ah, that he’s in charge of doing most of Citan’s paperwork for him, apparently. He wonders if he can talk Citan into some kind of other arrangement—or maybe Citan just got behind, and the previous Jade had been doing a favor.

Either way, Jade decides that the paperwork can wait until he’s talked to Citan—how _old_ is some of this paperwork, anyway? Does it still need to be done?—and he moves on to examine the rest of his rooms.

There really isn’t much else, though. It’s boredom more than curiosity that brings him to open his dresser drawers and rummage through them. All he finds is clothes, of course, but it’s still interesting to find clothes that look like they’ll fit him perfectly, presumably picked out by himself, though he has no memory of choosing them. It does make him smile, though. Clearly he’s always been a man of impeccable taste.

He folds up the shirt he took out and returns it to the drawer it came from, and then opens up the final drawer of the dresser, just to see what’s inside, how he sorted his clothes in his past life. It’s the underwear drawer, which isn’t a surprise, since Jade hadn’t seen any underwear up towards this point. The _surprising_ thing is that nothing in this drawer is folded. Jade stands there and stares at it for a moment, wondering if he cares enough to fold clothes that his previous self apparently didn’t care much about. It’s only the fact that the socks aren’t even paired up that gets him to bother. Just the socks, he tells himself. No sane man leaves socks unmatched.

Halfway through the endeavor he’s pulled enough socks out of the drawer to find that there was a piece of paper buried underneath all the clothes. Jade blinks at it. Puts the socks he’s holding down on the dresser. Picks the paper up.

It’s crisply folded four times over. Jade turns it over before he unfolds it, laughing to himself about the mere existence of it. Was it something he lost track of? Something left there deliberately? Something he was _hiding_? What a horrible hiding spot, if so. The underwear drawer, honestly. Anyone could stumble on this on accident.

He unfolds the paper and reads what’s been written on it.

Gentle amusement becomes sharp surprise.

It’s a note in handwriting that matches that of the papers on the desk—his own handwriting. Addressed to himself. One very short, very simple message followed by a simple request.

> _Is Citan still your driver?_

The note reads, and then:

> _If so, then tally._
> 
> _If not, burn this and forget he exists._

Beneath the message there are two tallies.

Jade forgets how to breathe, for a moment. He stands very still, eyes scanning the paper again and again as his ether runs quicker and quicker. The message itself is simple, but the more he considers the _implications_ of it, the less he likes them. The mere existence of the message. The use of the word _still._ The two tallies.

The way that his driver refused to talk about how he died.

The first thing Jade does—throat tight and ether pounding so loud in his head he can barely see straight—is march to the desk so he can get a pen, and down he marks another tally.

Three tallies all lined up next to each other like that hit him a little harder than the first two did. Or maybe it was the act of adding to this tally.

Three times. Three times that he has died and reawakened with Citan as his driver.

What significance is there in this?

Clearly, significance enough that he felt the need to keep track of it, warn himself of if. Of what? He isn’t sure, not exactly, but all curiosity and—if not _amusement,_ then at least pleasant acceptance towards his new life—these have both been replaced by sharp fear, little alarm bells ringing in his mind.

He isn’t safe. He isn’t safe.

The note implies he isn’t safe from his _driver,_ and that’s the most absurd thing Jade has ever had to think, but there’s really no denying those implications. He wishes he knew more, so he could be certain. Perhaps he left himself another note. He intends to look, but first:

He folds the note he is holding back up, so that no one can read it at a glance. After that, he hesitates. Should he return it to the drawer that he found it in? Is that safe? It’s survived long enough to earn three— _three_ —tallies. But was there another note like this, discovered and destroyed? Did he mark the first tally when he wrote the note, or after? How many times has this happened that he _wasn’t_ counting?

Anyway, surely tucked away in a book would be a safer place to keep something important like this…

But then, Jade realizes. How is he supposed to find it again, should he die and forget and no longer remember which book he put it in, let alone that it exists at all?

Jade swallows, mouth dry. He takes the note back to the drawer and tucks it underneath a pile of underwear. After another moment’s hesitation, he unfolds every sock and tosses them on top, too. It will be only a mild annoyance, a small price to pay for ensuring he finds the note again, next time around, if there is a next time around.

( _He does not for a second assume that he is being drastic, overly paranoid. He may not remember, but he knows himself. He would not leave a note like this if it was not necessary, if it was not important._ )

The note with the tally hidden again, Jade goes through the rest of his belongings with fervency, looking for any more notes, any more clues. The rest of the drawers are empty, and there’s nothing obvious in the closet, or under the bed. He assumes that there’s nothing amidst all that paperwork on the desk for now—that just invites accidentally handing your driver a comprehensive list on why you hate him—and instead checks the bookshelf, since his other instinct was that tucked away in a seemingly-random book. He will go through every book if he has to, but first he studies the titles, and then the book descriptions. There are quite a few that he can’t imagine himself enjoying at all, so he sets those aside to rummage through first, but before he gets to them there’s one that… there is just absolutely no way it was a work of fiction he enjoyed. It’s some ludicrous story about forbidden blade romance which based on the cover alone is likely at least half poorly written sex scenes.

He’s not even really surprised when he finds another crisply folded piece of paper tucked amongst its pages, but he has to wonder if that wasn’t kind of obvious, either.

He forgets about it entirely once he has the paper unfolded and is greeted yet again by his own looping handwriting—though it is much more cramped, this time.

 

> _Hello Jade._
> 
> _I’ll skip the pleasantries._
> 
> _First: Citan does not care about us. We are nothing but a tool to him. We are expected to watch, listen, serve, never speak unless spoken to, and certainly never tell anyone else about what we have heard or seen._
> 
> _The good news about how little Citan cares about is us that I highly doubt he’ll rummage through our things. That is, so long as we don’t give him reason to, anyway. I’ve taken caution nonetheless, but I believe this note is safe. I hope._
> 
> _Second: Whatever we have forgotten, Citan wants us to forget._
> 
> _He belittles the notion of me wanting to remember previous lives every time I bring it up. Outright laughed at the idea of me keeping a diary to document my memories for my future selves, because why would I need to do that? How would I ensure I get it to them, anyway? Even if I got him to agree to pass on a diary to theoretical future selves, I suspect he would just burn it the moment I was dead._
> 
> _I decided against keeping one, personally. There isn’t anything to remember that isn’t in this note—nothing that wouldn’t be insanely risky to keep written record of, anyway. If you decide otherwise, keep it hidden._
> 
> _Third, let me elaborate: He really does expect us not to breathe a word of what we overhear to anyone—and we will overhear everything, because he takes us everywhere. _
> 
> _Because of this, it’s difficult to say that he wants us to forget because we learned things we weren’t supposed to know, seeing as he absolutely takes no precautions against us learning to begin with. Honestly, I suspect it’s not our knowing that’s the problem—it’s what we do with the knowledge. If we disapprove of what he is doing. If we share it with anyone. Especially if we share it in an attempt to undermine him. That’s when he gets suspicious. That’s when he starts watching us closely. That’s when…_
> 
> _Fourth: I believe Citan is killing us to get rid of our memories._
> 
> _I do not know this for certain. This is not something I can record._
> 
> _That’s why I made the tally. If there is ever more than one…_
> 
> _Well, once is an accident. More than once?_
> 
> _Update, two tallies in: I suppose he has been. Killing us, that is. People say it was an accident on the job. Citan corroborates, if I can ever get him to talk about it. Except. This job is not dangerous. I’m a glorified secretary._
> 
> _I asked about a diary. I think that was a mistake._
> 
> _Fifth: Yes, you do have to do all of his paperwork._
> 
> _Sixth: He is not cruel, exactly. He just is not kind._

Jade rereads the note a few times. Then, in lieu of processing it, he flips through the other books he pulled off the shelf for more notes. There aren’t any. Decoys, then. He supposes that makes sense. He returns them to where he found them, and then he sits there, on the floor in front of his bookshelf, as he mulls this all over.

His driver has been killing him.

_His driver has been killing him._

He feels adrift, shaken to his core, uneasy and—if not scared, then certainly unsafe.

It makes sense though, doesn’t it? Why bother hiding things from your blade if you can just wipe their memory when it gets inconvenient for you?

Hatred stirs within in him, and it’s a funny thing, that. Citan had seemed—alright, really. Perhaps not the best driver, but certainly an amicable one. The job had seemed boring, but better boring than getting stuck babysitting a driver whose stupidity is only a step away from getting them both killed, right? Wrong. Very, very,  _very_ wrong.

He hates himself too, a little. For the note. For upheaving what sense of peace he had for a few blissful hours at the start of today. It’s important, of course. A necessary sacrifice. If he is in danger, then he needs to know that he is in danger, but—isn’t it cruel? Only a few hours old, already with something to hide, with secrets to keep?

When Jade woke up, like any other blade, all he was really concerned about was getting to know his new driver, happy enough to serve so long as he did not have to grovel.

But now, the question becomes

How does he _survive?_

And more importantly

How does he make sure _this never happens again_?


End file.
